From Sea to Shining Sea
by The Rival
Summary: [Wacky Races] Chapter 6 now up! A little celebration might be too much. Please r&r! (I neeeed feedback.)
1. Caribou

From Sea to Shining Sea

By La Petite Rouge

Chapter 1: The Race at Caribou

Ever so slowly, the delicious warmth of summer began to slip away. Nothing was left behind but a trail of blazoned red and gold autumn. But in a small town on the edge of Maine, another trail began. This trail was destined to lead a steadfast eleven across the nation from hollow to hill, from gully to glade, from sea to shining sea. All coming from a cozy town where not much else was going on

The time is near, and approaching in what seems to only be moments. The eleven teams will battle for the gold in this race across the states, and only one will leave with the winning title. In a matter of days, they will be here in Caribou, Maine, standing at the starting line, hands on the wheel, preparing to embark on the racing circuit once more.

A lull of several years had come to pass since this outlandish group had presumably left the races for good. Most of them certainly believed that it was for good, and that they would never again dash for the checkered flag. That they would never again experience the feeling of being in the winner's circle. Those years in the late sixties were filled with one race after another, and they really knew little else. That was what bought them back so quickly. Racing was such a part of their lives, it was an addiction they couldn't relinquish.

The year was 1972. Not much time had actually gone by, but it was enough for their liking. In a sense, this race would be something of a reunion, getting the band back together. But this would put them in for the long haul. Rather than just a helter skelter slew of various ventures, this race would lead them from Caribou, Maine to Gazelle, California, an expedition of nearly two months. Of course, it would not be straight from start to finish. Nothing is ever that simple.

The race would be run in legs, 47 all together. The first would take them from Caribou, Maine to Salem, New Hampshire. From there, they would set off for Burlington, Vermont, and so on through every state. So rather than count it as only one race, it would be 47. For each race, the winner would receive ten points, second place would be awarded six, third place would win four points, and every runner-up would receive one.

As they quickly bundled their things together in preparation for the "reunion," each racer remembered the glorious days that would soon come again

__

"And now, here they are! The most daredevil group of daffy drivers to ever whirl their wheels in the Wacky Races, competing for the title of the world's wackiest racer. The cars are approaching the starting line

First is the Turbo Terrific driven by Peter Perfect"

He stood at the front door of his comfortable suburban home. Light flickered through the glass panes splashing across Peter's face in a rainbow. With a suitcase in one hand, he reached for the doorknob with the other, ready to step back into his racing days.

Before he could, something held him back. When he turned, everything was in order, right down to the last detail. As he surveyed the foyer, his gaze came to rest on the front table, where a plant rested next to a small photo in a picture frame. Of course! Peter picked up the picture, beaming. "My Southern Belle how could I ever leave you behind?" Tucking the picture gently into his coat pocket, Peter made his way out the door.

The Turbo Terrific's chrome gleamed. Not that that was any sort of surprise; even when the car was in a thousand pieces, it sparkled. Casually checking his equally brilliant grin in the rearview mirror, Peter exhaled, pleased with a job well done.

He then began the process of arranging his various belongings on the seat while still leaving himself as much room as possible. Another deep breath, and he climbed in. There wasn't much occupying his mind at the moment, as he had done little in his free years. Racing was his life, and departing from it was putting his life on pause. Not to mention that he needed the recreation provided by his love interest.

With the steering wheel in a tight grip, Peter started the engine. "Let's be off. We have a race to win!" He whispered to the car. And with that, he was on his way.

__

"Next, Rufus Ruffcut and Sawtooth in the Buzz Wagon"

Updown. The beaver's cocoa pelt was glossy, reflecting back the pale, early morning sunlight as he dozed contentedly. His ear twitched back as if it were alive, but the rest of him lay nearly motionless. Curled up on the large brown stump, his favorite spot, Sawtooth rested with no intention of moving.

Rufus, however, had other plans. "Sawtooth." He called in a gruff but amiable voice. Sawtooth didn't budge. Coming nearer to the sleeping animal, Rufus tried again to wake him. "Sawtooth!" No response. Sighing heavily, Rufus scooped up the beaver, carrying him in the direction of the jumble of wood and metal that was the Buzz Wagon. Sensing motion, Sawtooth opened one eye halfway, secretly pleased with himself for getting a free ride to the car. He wasn't as young as he used to be, so one less trek across the stump-filled lawn wasn't anything to be upset over.

After placing Sawtooth in the Buzz Wagon, Rufus brushed off his plaid shirt. He jumped into the car as well, waiting a moment to get back to the feel of it. Neither of them had left their home here since their racing days. Taking a parting look at Manitoba, Rufus grinned. "Well, Sawtooth, whether you're awake or not, we're goin'."

__

"Maneuvering for position is the Army Surplus Special"

Sitting idly amidst mountains of Beetle Bailey comic books, Meekly reclined, thankful for recent turns of events. This was the most relaxed he, and Sergeant Blast as well, had been in ages. Slowly but surely, the American troops were being drawn out of the war in Vietnam, and it was fortunate that he and Blast had been among the first. They returned early, each in one piece.

Now that racing had resurfaced, the two would be looking at a lengthy break from the army. Whether or not they would admit to it, the break was very much appreciated. Meekly especially enjoyed his time off. 

Then again, this time off really wasn't "time off." Although far from being in the army, the race would certainly have trials of its own. Sarge was in it for the hard times. To him, all it took to win was enough grit, but as the Surplus Six rarely placed in the past

Lowest or not, Sarge's morale was high. Raising a hand to his eyes, he looked around, scanning the area for Meekly, who of course was still indoors, leafing through comics. But he was on his way. Just before Sarge could toss his head back and holler for Meekly, there Meekly was, standing right in front of him with about a half dozen comics tucked under his arm.

Sarge glanced at the comics and frowned. "Don't get how you read those. Why can't you read something with an actual story?"

"Like those Weird War' comics you read?" Meekly chuckled mischievously. 

Had it been any other private, Sarge would certainly have bitten his head off. But Meekly was different. "Those are graphic novels, Meekly," was all he had to say. Meekly got into the front of the Surplus Special, dumping his comics on the seat beside him, while Sarge piled the rest of their belongings into the tank. "Let's goooo!" Sarge blared, trying to regain the feel of it. Sure enough, it returned quite naturally.

__

"right behind is the Ant Hill Mob in their Bullet-Proof Bomb"

Ring-a-Ding stood as high as he could, which wasn't very high, and peered through the wooden boards that shielded the window. "Nnnnnnf!" He was also standing on Mac's head. Willy, Kurby, Danny, and Rug-Bug-Benny stood in a cluster nearby, waiting anxiously to see what was going to happen next.

Masked in shadow, a pair of steely eyes glared out from under the brim of a charcoal gray hat. It was Clyde, enthroned on a cardboard box, with its red up-arrow pointing toward the wall. "Well?" Clyde demanded between puffs of a cigar. The smoke rings wafted into the light and disappeared.

Climbing down from Mac's head, Ring-a-Ding looked off in the direction of the voice. "I didn't see nobody, Clyde."

Quite satisfied, Clyde slid down from the cardboard box and began his direction in the usual way. "All right, youse mugs, out that door and into the car. We'z due in Caribou in two days." Light streamed in from every crack and hole in the wall. Except for Clyde, every one of them automatically looked to the cracks. It had become habit. When no one moved, Clyde crossed his arms and cleared his throat in impatience.

One of them spoke up. "But we'z on the lam. Is this race woith it?"

Without hesitation, Clyde silenced the doubt. "Yeah yeah. There's no way anybody even remembuhs." But even he showed a twinge of nervousness.

The mob moved like a herd of sheep, in a solid mass, in the direction of the door. Their "hideout" was an old, abandoned duplex in a vacant lot, and the Bullet-Proof Bomb was resting comfortably under a tree behind the building. Out they went, piling into their dependable vehicle. 

Before Clyde could set off, he heard a voice from behind him. Mac was looking nervously out the back window, fiddling with the cord on the blind. "Euh how much time **do** yuh spend in the joint for that? Those East End guys got months for smoking in front of the theater."

A nervous Kurby jumped in. "And they wuz just smokin' cigarettes. We wuz smokin' cigahs!" The rest of the mob nodded their heads in unison, and they resembled a group of bobble-head dolls.

Clyde considered, then gave a flat answer. "I dunno. But I'm not stickin' around to find out!" And with a splutter, the Bullet-Proof Bomb was off and running.

__

"and there's ingenious inventor, Pat Pending, in his Convert-a-Car"

The ingenious inventor was scurrying around in search of various odds and ends, in hopes of creating some gadget to render the scurrying obsolete. Then, once he remembered what the significance of the day was, Pat Pending stopped in his tracks, considering. When he set off again, it was to gather his things. It was a habit that wouldn't die, for every task he found himself working on, he felt compelled to create some gadget to make it easier. Then again, that was more or less how the Convert-a-Car came to be.

"Here we go again!" he chuckled to himself, placing a few more things into the bag. Out he went, where the Convert-a-Car had rested comfortably for the past few years. He tucked the bag safely away, and got into his seat. With the push of a button, the garage door opened, and the professor shifted gears and out he went into the sunlight.

A sliver of the light was pouring down across his hands, and he tossed a quick glance upward to see where it was coming from. "Oh, that tear!" he scoffed accusingly at the canopy over his head. "I meant to stitch that. Never mind." Ignoring it, he continued.

For Pat, this was a long awaited venture. He stayed more or less alone in his home, locked away in the sanctity of his basement. "How I lasted that long, I'll never know!" All in all, he was ready to be back. 

__

"Oh, and here's the lovely Penelope Pitstop, the glamour gal of the gas pedal"

With each brush of her long, golden mane, Penelope became increasingly pleased with herself. Looking at her reflection in the mirror, she saw everything she thought of as good and right with the world. In her racing years she had become more than just the token female. She had power and knew it.

During her hiatus, Penelope had returned to her hometown in Tennessee. Only months after her return, she inherited a vast estate, and she now lived in a fine manor just outside of Memphis. The two years or so were spent lavishly, comfortably.

Satisfied with her appearance, she tucked her brush into her travel bag. She wouldn't be seen by anyone unless she was primped and polished to perfection, touched with the freshest tints. For her, this was more than an expression of herself; it was her strategy, a useful reinforcement. Would any of her competitors, all being male, pass up the chance to help a damsel in distress?

"Thayer. Ready to go!" she chirped, cheerily tossing a few more things into her bag. Gracefully, she descended the curving marble staircase and headed to the door, looking forward to going back the excitement of the races. Before she could, something held her back. 

A small framed picture caught her eye! "Oh, Peter, I just can't wait to see ya'll again!" It was true; she had missed his genteel chivalry. Only years earlier, she had harbored deep feelings for him, and still did. But since then, others, quite a few others, had left more permanent marks on her heart, lips, and elsewhere.

Giving the photo a wink, Penelope turned and pranced out the door and off to the garage where the Compact Pussycat was waiting for her.

__

"Next, we have the Bouldermobile with the Slag brothers, Rock and Gravel"

A hairy creature emerged from a rocky structure. He stood impatiently, waiting. While he waited, he brushed himself off, sending a whirlwind of dust off into the wind. A low growling noise rumbled in his throat; he had waited long enough.

Gravel was used to this. While he was always energetic and looking ahead for what would happen next, his twin, Rock, was dragging his feet, just wanting to drift along. Gravel lumbered back over to the mouth of the cave and peered in. The light from outside the cave trickled in a few feet, then was eaten up by the cave. Still, a distant light was visible. Fire.

Rock hadn't moved! Gravel roared into the cave, once twice "Raaarg!" At last, Rock roared back. The light of the fire dimmed and went out, and rhythmic grunts could be heard in the darkness. Finally, Rock stood in the mouth of the cave, dragging two large wooden clubs. Rock held one out to Gravel, who took it eagerly.

For brothers, they were typical. They were also the type who never really passed beyond childhood. Always living and working together, Rock and Gravel Slag functioned as one unit. One thing was certain, they were two sides of the same coin; for all their differences, they complemented each other.

Gravel was thrilled with the idea of going somewhere, but felt somehow that something was wrong. "Urrrgh Uggg!" He shouted, realizing the problem. It would be difficult to get where they were going without a vehicle. They didn't have one anymore, not since Rock had decided to use the Bouldermobile for a fireplace.

Although Gravel considered giving Rock a thump on the head with his club, he thought better of it. Neither of them knew they would race again. And Rock had gone to the trouble to make the clubs. The problem was fixable. Gravel motioned at a pile of large stones lying against the cave. It would certainly take some time, but a new Bouldermobile could be born right beside their cave.

__

"lurching along is the Creepy Coupe with the Gruesome Twosome"

Green candles burned in the Creepy Coupe's headlights. Little Gruesome lifted one from its lantern, sprinkled it with nutmeg, chanting, "With my power, I empower you" His voice was low, not much more than a whisper. Once he had done the same with the other candle, Little Gruesome stared up at the Creepy Coupe's tower. "Well, the spell was just for luck. That's not necessarily going to wake a dragon. Hey!"

Big Gruesome was stretched out across the seat of the car, reaching for the candles. "You remember last time you tried to do this spell yourself. It was weeks before we could get rid of that demon."

Sheepishly drawing his hand back away from the candles, Big Gruesome answered in a dismal voice, "He made a hair-raising hood ornament when he was in a good mood." Little Gruesome didn't seem to care about that; he just wanted to wake the dragon up.

"We can't go until the dragon's awake," he explained to Big Gruesome, who seemed to be wondering why nothing was happening. 

Standing up, Big Gruesome reached into the tower. "Dragonnnn" He pulled back his hand just in time; an incredibly colored fireball came spewing out of the window, accompanied by a roar that would have made Morticia Adams shudder. The fireball continued for several feet and incinerated a cluster of trees.

That was not enough to intimidate Little Gruesome. "He's just like that because he hasn't worked in years. Dragon, we're going to Caribou. Now! Get up!"

The groggy head of a dragon appeared out the front window of the tower. With a finger pressed to thoughtful lips, Big Gruesome had an idea. "Anyone you see on the way is fair game." That was enough for the ornery dragon, who stretched his wings luxuriously.

"Blessed be," Little Gruesome sighed, jumping into the Creepy Coupe next to Big Gruesome. The candles burned still brighter, and a handful of bats scuttered out of the tower and fell into orbit. The Creepy Coupe was back to normal. Well

__

"and right on their tail is the Red Max"

Finally, the journey was complete. The Red Max collapsed onto the bed in his hotel room, boots still on his feet. The trip to Caribou had been long and tedious, but he felt a certain amount of pride in his ability to go the distance. Although the Crimson Haybailer had seen better days, it did pull through for him now.

He sat propped up on the bed, gazing dreamily out the window, a hollow homesickness eating away at him. Not once had he left since his last races in America, and although he was eager to race again, leaving homeland was difficult. "Blühe deutsches Vaterland," he whispered, the national anthem playing in his head. When the song ended, he tried to think about something else, but couldn't wrench his mind away. Wrestling with rusty English, Max added, "Mein body ees here boot mein heart ees in Germany."

In the time he had spent away, Max had joined the air force in West Germany, training neophyte pilots. He eventually reached the rank of captain, which was an incredible honor in his eyes. Ever since he was a child, Max had held onto a passion for flying, and idolized Manfred von Richthofen, the Red Baron. The glories of World War I inspired his childhood spirit during Germany's darkest hour: World War II. 

Flying was a part of him, whether it was done on the race circuit or not. Coming back to racing would be a nice change, he assured himself, and so will seeing all the other racers again. The time he spent in the air force were golden; he knew he was living out his dream. But somehow, he felt something was missing. What it was, he was unsure, but he assumed now that it was the reason he returned to America.

"Nossing vill shtop me now," he assured himself, peacefully. Leaning up, he removed his boots and stood them up beside his bed. Max was prepared to step back into what his days were once full of, racing. Satisfied with the thought that he would soon recover what he felt his new life was lacking, Max let his eyes close, and fell asleep upon the instant.

__

"and here's the Arkansas Chug-a-bug with Luke and Blubber Bear"

The steady hum of the bees was nothing short of soporific. Luke was propped up contentedly against a tree, his straw hat tipped slightly forward to shield his eyes from the red summer sun. After stroking his untrimmed whiskers, Luke took a sip from the jug that sat next to him, and folded his hands in his lap again. 

Luke lived in an nondescript old shack, paint chipping off every wall, just up the street from some relatives. Some? That might not be a strong enough word. The town was small, made up almost entirely of his family. After spending a few minutes trying to remember all his brothers' and sisters' names, he chortled, "Fergeddit," without even making an attempt on his cousins. Not that it mattered. Names were rarely used, as they all simply accepted that there were too many. Everyone was addressed by, "Hay you!" or just plain, "You." Or "Ya'll" in the case of twins.

Sometimes Luke sat on the porch, but now he just felt like being completely alone. Once he had finished trying to sort out the mess of his family tree, Luke felt that there was something else that he needed to remember, but was unsure as to what. Brushing it off as unimportant, Luke went right back to enjoying the peace and quiet. The tree he leaned against, he knew as, "ma saycrit tray." It lay at the far edge of the cornfield, and no one had ever been able to find him hiding there before.

Lifting his head, Luke glared irritably in the direction of his house. He thought he had heard a crunching noise, but now it sounded like something crashing through the cornfield. When he saw the stalks of corn start to shake and felt the earth move beneath him, Luke jumped to his feet, about ready to scramble up the tree. 

Just then, some grunting noises could be heard, and a hairy brown head appeared. Luke had grabbed hold of a branch above his head and was getting ready to pull himself up into the tree, but the sight of the shaggy bear stopped him. "Dag-blame it, Blubber, my saycrit tray hain't a saycrit no mo'!"

Blubber looked apologetic, but had other problems at hand. Grunting at Luke didn't seem to be getting the right kind of attention. "Tawk, tawk, tawk, that's all you do is bump yo' gums." Luke looked impatient. The two were an odd couple of sorts. Luke's only interest at the time was getting back to his nap, and consciousness was little more than the annoying gap between naps.

In his paw, Blubber grasped his blue and green racing helmet. It was full of dust as it had been hanging on the back wall for so long. With the coordination of a six-year-old, Blubber managed to get the helmet on his head. Luke watched this whole process. That was it! "Great day, we best get the ol' Chug-a-Bug runnin'."

__

"Sneaking along last is that Mean Machine with those double-dealing do-badders, Dick Dastardly and his sidekick, Muttley"

Muttley sat defiantly in the driver's seat of the Mean Machine, refusing to budge. He knew he wasn't really supposed to sit there, but he wasn't bothered. Not bothered, that is, until a suitcase came hurtling through the air, nearly knocking Muttley's head off. It landed behind him with a thud, and Muttley felt his heart stop, then pound voraciously. "Razzer-frazzer-razzer!" he growled under his breath.

"Get out and help before I give you something to swear about!" All the hair on Muttley's neck bristled. The voice of his "master" was like nails on a chalkboard. Even so, rather than incur whatever wrath the loathsome human had planned, Muttley decided it would just be easier to do what he was told.

Dick Dastardly smirked, watching Muttley hoist himself out of the car and back to where the pile of suitcases was stacked. "Think of it, Muttley. This is our chance to do what we never could before!"

"Yeah yeah yeah yeah!" Muttley seemed to like the idea as well, as his pout had disappeared. Now that Muttley was transporting the suitcases, it was Dastardly's turn to regain his position in the driver's seat.

With one gloved hand, he brushed several stray dog hairs off the seat, and settled himself in the car. At last, Muttley's work was ended, and he jumped in as well. "Of course, we have enough *equipment* packed to deal with the competition" Dick reminded Muttley with a faraway look in his eye.

"Hsss-ss-ssss-ssss!" was the only response he got from Muttley. With a roar, the Mean Machine was ready to go, and on its way to the starting line in Caribou, Maine.

__

"and away they go! On the way out Wacky Races!"


	2. Salem

Chapter 2: Salem

Cameras and microphones peppered the streets, which was completely foreign to the residents of Caribou. Reporters, journalists, everyone had congregated in the main street, awaiting for the arrival of the racers, who gradually began to trickle in. 

A cluster of journalists were off by themselves, twittering wildly. The unsung South Dakota newspaper they wrote for, the Black Hills Pioneer, had sent them here in an attempt to gain at least a small amount of publicity. It would mean living out of a suitcase for months, but the return of the Wacky Racers was well worth the while. 

Leading the discussion seemed to be a fair-haired woman, peering haughtily down her nose as if she stood a few feet above everyone else. "They're due here at 10 o'clock. So where are they?" She paced back and forth, nerves on edge. Her movements were catlike, the way a tiger moves when stalking, ready to pounce.

"Not here, I guess, Mrs. March." Jack Harris, a lanky boy about half her age grunted, with his hands in his pockets. He had put his notebook down and was leaning against a building with a broad grin spreading across his face. The woman seethed, and the boy jumped to correct himself. "Mrs. Mar-shaaaaaay." His exaggerated attempt at pronunciation set the rest of the group into fits of laughter.

The woman, Bonnie Marché, was a stickler about this simple thing, but this boy enjoyed nothing more than getting a rise out of her. "Mr. Harris, maybe once you have mastered my name, you can work on your writing skills. God knows you need to. Julia, what time do you have on your watch?"

Little colored lights flickered up across their faces. Julia Reingold was dressed to the nines, dripping with jewelry, rings on most of her fingers, her throat graced by multiple necklaces. "Six fourteen AM," she chirped.

"Pardon?" Bonnie was in no mood for joking, but Julia was the only one of the group she actually got along with. "My watch says eight seventeen."

Julia stood in silence for a moment with a confused expression. "Whoops! Forgot to change the time. We went across some time zones, didn't we?"

"That was brilliant," giggled a voice. Laurel Abbey, the girl who spoke this time was short , and rather plump. Red corkscrew curls fell to her round chin, and she glanced up at the taller girl standing next to her. This girl olive-skinned and hiding behind her glasses, grinned silently back, and laughed as well.

Although she looked impatient and irritable, Bonnie said nothing more than, "Did everyone else remember to set their watch forward two hours?" The heads nodded, and Laurel looked up to the taller girl again.

"This had better be a hell of a lot more interesting than that Rapid City flood thing we had to write about last time."

"It will be. I've always wanted to see the whole country."

"Colette DesCroix, why am I not surprised? Remember when you told me you were going to travel around the world once you got out of college?"

Colette smiled darkly, and she pushed a layer of brown hair out of her eyes. "I know. I would have done it if I had the money."

Not that Laurel wasn't interested in Colette's plans for travelling the world, she just had other things on her mind. "Hey, you _will_ get to see America. And who knows, we might even get ourselves knocked up."

Leave it to Laurel to focus on the sexual. "Do you have to turn everything into something nasty?"

"It's a living."

"No, photography is your living!" Colette's efforts were having little effect on Laurel's one-track mind.

"Come on, when was the last time you were in a _serious relationship_?"

"Don't act like you don't remember." Colette seemed to be put on edge by the new direction the conversation was taking. "You don't miss a chance to remind me of it other times. Can we talk about something else now?"

"Seriously, we need to get out more. Meet some members of the opposite sex?" Laurel licked her lips, eyes widening with possibility.

"_Members of the opposite sex_? If I know you, you just want members!" Colette giggled again, and received a playful jab in the ribs from Laurel.

"Bitch!" By now, Laurel was laughing hysterically as well. With one look at Bonnie's sternly raised eyebrows, Laurel and Colette quieted down. They hoped Bonnie hadn't said anything terribly important while they were off in their own world, and from the sound of it, they hadn't missed much. 

Just to be sure, Laurel tapped the girl next to her on the arm. "Hey- - Ashleigh. What's she been going on about?"

Slender Ashleigh Blackbyrne peered down at Laurel. In a wispy voice, the answer came, "Nothing, just how slow everything's moving and her husband is boring, but at least taxes are low and it isn't snowing." Ashleigh smiled shyly. She looked like a skeleton, pale skin stretched across bone. Straight black hair streamed down her back. Although she spoke little, she was somewhat of an ally to Laurel and Colette.

By 9 o'clock, more than half the racers had arrived, and were trying their best to avoid the microphones and flashing cameras. They had reached safety in the lobby of the Caribou Inn, where they were mingling around a long buffet table. The hotel manager sat at his desk, wondering how it was possible to get the entire group rounded up again.

It certainly wasn't an easy task, but each of them was finally tracked down. The Slag brothers seemed mesmerized by the amount of food in one place, and ran off with whatever they wanted, chanting all the while. Apart from them, every one else was buzzing with banter; where they had been, what they had done, and what brought them back.

Penelope strode elegantly in through the glass doors, looking unachievably perfect. She didn't seem at all fazed by the clamor outside, simply running her fingers through her hair and beaming. "Hi thayer!" she called out. Every head in the lobby turned, all eyes on her, just the way she liked it.

From left to right and back again, she scanned the room and sure enough, she spotted Peter Perfect standing by the far end of the table, popping chocolate covered strawberries into his mouth. "Oh Peter!" she stood next to him, grinning.

A pair of burly hands grasped a buttered croissant. In three bites, Rufus Ruffcut was finished with it and looking for more. He was also looking for Sawtooth, who had gone missing shortly after they got inside. Rufus's plan had been to hide Sawtooth, who wasn't actually allowed in the Inn, but he had hidden Sawtooth too well. Then he heard the noise.

Casually bending down, he peeked under the tablecloth. The Ant Hill Mob was sitting in a circle with a pile of food in the middle. At the sight of Rufus, Clyde looked irritated. Before Clyde could say anything, Rufus grunted, "Sorry," and moved farther down the table.

"Sawtooth!" The beaver stopped his work, with one table leg chewed nearly in half. "You just couldn't help yourself, could you? Well if you stop now, maybe no one will notice." It was possible; the tablecloth did cover the damage, and nothing heavy was on that end of the table.

In the far corner, Dick Dastardly stood next to Sergeant Blast. Although they really weren't together, Blast was feeling affable, which wasn't something that happened terribly often. "Dastardly," he muttered in his emotionless, military fashion.

"Blast." They paused, and looked at each other. It was difficult to say whether they were smiling or frowning, but for a brief moment, something passed between them.

"Good luck to you," Sarge grunted, speaking more through his nose than his mouth. Before Dick could respond, not that Blast truly expected him to, Sarge set off in search of Meekly, who had disappeared somewhere. Dick was left leaning against the wall, thoughtful. In the way people often do when they concentrate on something to intensely for too long, even Dick had to wonder whether his ruthless efforts to win were worth the trouble. He remembered being told before that if he would just race, he would come out ahead of the pack for sure. That quickly, he forced the thought from his mind, not wanting to think about it anymore. It wasn't as if he would ever see her again, anyway.

Nine-thirty. The crowds were becoming increasingly anxious, and on the side of the street opposite the hotel, throngs of people were standing at the side of the street, counting down. The racers were anxious as well, ready for their departure except one. For at that moment, a few miles outside of Caribou, he awoke slowly, gradually regaining consciousness.

"Vhat time ees it?" The Red Max put a hand on his forehead, still feeling somewhat off center. When he saw the time for himself, he jumped up, quickly pulled on his boots again and grabbed his things, and hurriedly went on his way to check out.

By now, the racers were beginning to drift out of the reception at the Inn and out to their cars. Muttley was already out there, leaning up against the Mean Machine, pouting sourly at the Inn. That was where he wanted to go, but of course, he was not allowed. The fact that Sawtooth had gone in just added to it, but Blubber at least had to stay outside.

Peter and Penelope came out together, looking as though they had never been apart. They spoke in a whispered hush, sharing a chuckle every few moments. The Ant Hill Mob shuffled out from the hotel, looking over their shoulders as if they were being followed, and Sarge and Meekly came parading out to the Surplus Six in step.

The Black Hills Pioneer journalists still stood in the street several meters back from the starting line. They were quiet now, tired from the wait. They then glanced back in the opposite direction from that which the race would soon take when they heard a sort of droning sound followed by an occasional, but booming thud. In the distance, an incredible red spot was difficult to miss. Propeller whirring and all, the Red Max was on his way to the starting line in a hasty, but not exactly controlled, fashion.

Colette and Laurel were still absorbed by their conversation of men, college, and men in college, they shared a strange look when the other journalists scattered like pigeons. "Colette!" Laurel shrieked at the sight of the Crimson Haybailer coming from behind them.

The two made a dash for the edge of the street. When Max had passed them, Colette and Laurel scowled after him. "You'd think he could control that thing by now," Colette whispered, trying to catch her breath.

Clearly trying to slow down and stop before reaching the starting line, Max slammed on the brakes, and the Haybailer reared up. Airborne again, Max searched for a spot to land, which looked as if it might be on top of the Army Surplus Special. Sarge looked up seeing the shadow, and quickly pulled Meekly away, dragging him to the edge of the street. With a squealing of brakes and a final bang, the Crimson Haybailer came to a halt a few feet from the Surplus Six.

Beads of sweat ran down Max's temples as he tried to recover from the struggle. Secretly, Max wished he could go home; the airplanes he flew there were far more dependable. "Easy, the race hasn't started yet!" Max looked over to see Peter Perfect standing next to him, smiling warmly. Max smiled back, still regaining his composure. "Are you alright?"

Max nodded shakily, softly answering, "Ja."

"Good luck to you, by the way," Peter added before heading back to Penelope. Max wanted to answer back, but he was still calming down from his frenetic arrival. It did provide him with a certain amount of comfort knowing that at least one person thought nothing of it.

Not that that had any effect on Sarge, who could no longer control his temper. He had never been fond of Max; they were always pitted against each other in races, of course, but on another level, it was personal.

"If we weren't starting a race in ten minutes" Sarge was ready to go off on a rant, but Meekly tried his best to hold him back.

"Sarge "

"War's over. And yet around you go, still trying to wipe all us damn _Amerikaners_ off the face of the earth" Sarge spat the word Amerikaners' out menacingly, and stormed off, leaving Max with a confused expression on his face.

"Sorry about that. He reads these World War II comics, and he'll get over it." Meekly's short notice apology got a hint of a smile out of Max.

"Goot luck to you," Max wanted to extend the olive branch, and Meekly seemed pleased to accept it. With a tip of his hat, Meekly turned and strode back to the Surplus Six where Sarge was waiting. By now, Max's heartbeat had returned to normal, and he was looking around to see if all the others had shown up.

Asleep on the rocking chair that was the Arkansas Chug-a-bug's seat, Luke didn't seem bothered by the fact that he would need to be at least conscious to drive. His large breakfast had left him full to bursting, and Blubber knew better than to try to wake him.

The Gruesome Twosome were very much awake, and so were the Slag brothers. Kneeling behind the Convert-a-Car, Pat Pending adjusted his new license plate, marked "I N VENT." Once satisfied, he rose to his feet and got into the car. He looked at his watch, which also functioned as a compass, as well as his key to the Convert-a-Car. "Six minutes left" Pat whispered to himself.

At the end of the line, Dick Dastardly was sitting bolt upright, hands resting on the steering wheel, ignoring the racket that Muttley was making as long as he could. "Muttley! What the hell is wrong with you?" Muttley whined, dragging some chain out of the back seat. Dick thought for a moment, then understood. "Ahh, I see. You want to chain the racers to something, hmmm?"

"Yeah yeah yeah." Muttley growled appreciatively, feeling as though he had finally done something right.

"Muttley, remember just how much that _didn't help us? _For God's sake, we tried it enough times, and just see all the good it did us. Give it a rest." The growls of agreement stopped. What had happened? Muttley was dumbfounded, wondering what had come over his master. He let the chains fall, and then let himself fall into the backseat. "Stop sniveling. All we need to do is think outside the box." Dick wasn't entirely certain what that meant, but he assured himself that it would come to him.

"I better go back to my car," Penelope whispered to Peter, knowing that time was short. 

"All right, good luck, my dear. I will see you in Salem, then?"

Penelope had been staring straight ahead, but turned to Peter and smiled, gently pushing some strands of blonde hair out of her eyes. "Guess you will," she answered, placing a hand on his shoulder. She leaned close to him, as if she were planning to steal a kiss from him but slowly, she pulled back, gave his shoulder a squeeze, and pranced off to the Compact Pussycat. Peter looked slightly disappointed, but shrugged it off gracefully. The race hadn't even started yet. There was plenty of time for her.

The chatter of the spectators on the sidelines seemed to die down, and a man with a microphone motioned with his arms for silence. No one knew who he was just by looking at him; no one knew his name. These pieces of knowledge were trivial. He was known for his voice. "And now, here they are!" He began, introducing the racers with the same penchant as he always had.

By the time he reached the Creepy Coupe, anyone there scarcely breathed. This was it. "and away they go, on the way out Wacky Races!" With that, he raised a small handgun into the air and fired. Feet sank on gas pedals, and the racers went blasting off down the road to the echoes of the cheering crowd. Well, ten of them did.

Still sitting at the starting line was the Arkansas Chug-a-bug, where Blubber had had enough of Luke's unwillingness to wake up. If a gunshot didn't wake him, was he even still alive? The thought of that was too much for Blubber, who dumped Luke out of the rocking chair and onto the road.

That worked. In a moment, Luke was on his feet, giving Blubber an ornery glare. "If'n you try that one mo' again, I'ma gon' slap you so hard, your clothes will be outta style!" Blubber turned away from Luke, not out of shame as much as out of needing to get the laughter out. When Luke was angry, a colorful southern spiel of insults would be hurled from his mouth, which would spice up any situation. By now, Luke and Blubber were both situated on the rocker, and although a fair bit behind, they were in the running.

Meanwhile, Bonnie Marché was in the process of hurriedly rounding up her journalists into her spotless black van. Jack, who was leaning against the van, protested. "Mrs. Marsh Marché, um they'll still beat us to Salem."

Bonnie looked irritated. "No, we'll overtake them in the home stretch," she snarled sarcastically.

Jack looked interested. "Your van can go that fast? Could I put on roller blades and tie a rope to the back of the car and"

Absentmindedly, Julie laughed sending flashes of jewelry into Jack's eyes. Without bothering to listen to all of Jack's idea, Bonnie stepped in. "We're going on a shorter road, you smartass!" The remark slid off Jack easily, and the idea was now even more appealing to him. He decided to try asking again some other time when Bonnie was feeling slightly less anal.

To Luke and Blubber, the trailing racers ahead of them could be seen as tiny flecks on the horizon, and were easy to spot amidst the trees and rocky rural landscape. They moved at a good clip, late start and all, especially considering what the Chug-a-bug's boiler had been used for in its retreat from racing. Luke's feet rested on the steering wheel, and he didn't seem to be at all bothered by the fact that the Chug-a-bug was hitting every bit of debris in the road, which made for a very bumpy ride.

Even when the Chug-a-bug came to a fork in the road, it was no problem choosing the right way. Two thin parallel grooves dug into the road were left behind by the Buzz Wagon. Rufus and Sawtooth sat contentedly in the second place, as everyone desperately trying to catch them followed the grooves in the road.

As usual, Dick Dastardly and Muttley took an early lead, and were now sailing to Salem. Muttley stared glumly out the window and sighed, leaving a misty ring on the glass. Dick picked up on Muttley's frustrated boredom. "What's the matter now?" Muttley whined again, staring pathetically at the chains he had dropped in the backseat and left there before.

Dick looked into the rearview mirror carefully to keep the afternoon sun out of his eyes, and was unable to see hide nor hair of the other racers. Slowing to a stop, he turned and looked at Muttley. "All right, you want to make yourself useful?" Muttley's droopy ears pricked up a bit. Dick raised an eyebrow. "Well, that's a nice change." Silently looking around, Dick waited for inspiration to strike him. Sure enough, it did.

He jumped out of the Double-Zero and Muttley followed, which was odd: the dog had shown more obedience in the past ten minutes than he had shown his entire life. A bridge passed over the road the racers were taking, and it went on and on in both directions. It was held up by bare steel girders on the sides of the road, and these were so close together that driving between them would be impossible. "There is no way the racers could get past a pile of rocks in the road under the bridge. They'll sit here all day trying to figure out a way to get through!"

Quickly, the two piled up the rocks as high as they could, and held back a moment to admire their work. Their structure wasn't very tall, only about four and a half feet or so, but it was strong. They didn't have much time to rest, as a grinding sound could be heard from behind them. "Here they come! Muttley hold on. Where did we leave the car?"

Muttley yelped nervously, seeing the problem. He looked back, and the Mean Machine was still sitting on the shoulder of the road where they had left it. Dick slapped a hand to his forehead. "I can't believe it! Every time!" The two dashed back to the car hoping they could at least find a way around before the Buzz Wagon gained too much ground on them.

No such luck. The two cars reached the blockade at more or less the same time, and hustled off in opposite directions trying to find a way around. A thundering sound shattered the short-lived quiet around the bridge. Sarge was perched at the top of the Surplus Six, and noticed the rocks. "Let's gooo!" Sarge barked down at Meekly, who sped up accordingly, and rolled right over the rocks, knocking many between the girders and out of the way. The other racers trailing them blasted through the opening like a leak in a bottle, but the Surplus Six had gained considerable ground.

Nothing would stop Sarge and Meekly now. They were on a roll, so to speak, and even the hardened Ant Hill Mob edged off to the side of the road so the determined Surplus Six could pass them, with the Convert-a-Car close behind. Pat Pending wanted to be the first to leave his mark on the circuit, so he gave it all he had. Deciding that flying would be faster than driving, in addition to giving him room to pass the Surplus Six, Pat morphed the Convert-a-Car into its outlandish aircraft form, and took to the air. 

As he took off, one of the Convert-a-Car's wheels knocked against the roof of the Bullet-Proof Bomb in an attempt to pass it, and the Convert-a-Car swerved downward to the road again, lurching forward unsteadily. That easily, victory belonged to the Surplus Six, who crossed the line first, abruptly, but awkwardly followed by the Convert-a-Car, and the Bullet-Proof Bomb roared in third. The rest of the cars poured in after them, and the race to Salem was over.

The Army Surplus Special: 10

The Convert-a-Car: 6

The Bullet-Proof Bomb: 4

The Mean Machine: 1

The Bouldermobile: 1

The Creepy Coupe: 1

The Crimson Haybailer: 1

The Compact Pussycat: 1

The Arkansas Chug-a-bug: 1

The Turbo Terrific: 1

The Buzz Wagon: 1


	3. Burlington

Chapter 3: Burlington

Over a little hole-in-the-wall hotel in Salem, the sun was setting in the late afternoon sky. Eleven mismatched cars were parked in a line to one side of the building, and their drivers were just around the corner, around the pool behind the hotel. The only sound in the air 

was the sound of the water lapping, and the racers' conversation.

Several large pizzas, sprinkled with every topping known to pizza, and certainly some that weren't, lay on a large rectangular table that had been set out for just the occasion. Luke and Pat stood at the end of the table, admiring the spread and selecting some slices. Luke was in shock by all the effort that had been made to prepare for the arrival of him and the other racers here as well as in Caribou. He had never seen so much food in one place as he had in the last twelve hours. 

"Barn mah house n' steal mah car. Thar's enough thar fo' all mah kinfolks."

"Hungry, Luke?"

"You dang skippy! Jus' look a' all them pizza!" 

"There is a lot there," Pat agreed. "You can find out how big they are. Just use ¹r2. That will give you area."

Wrinkles formed on Luke's forehead as he tried to digest what Pat had just told him. Once he had run it through his head backwards and forwards, he spoke. "Pie are squayer? T'ain't rite. Pie are round; cornbread are squayer. An' pie don' give you no ar-ya. Pie give ya full belly."

Now it was Pat's turn to be confused. When he finally made sense of Luke's answer, he couldn't help but chuckle at it. The two had been friends years earlier, and that had not changed at all. The fact that they had absolutely nothing in common seemed to be what made them such good companions for each other.

Everyone else was doing more or less the same, catching up with friends they had had before they left the races. The brunch in Caribou wasn't sufficient for that - the tension about the race's beginning overcame much of their desire to be social. Here, the pressure was off, at least for a little while. Luke wasn't much for being social any time; he was happy enough by himself, or around Blubber. 

Since animals weren't allowed in the hotel, Blubber was resting on the Chug-a-bug's rocking chair, which was good enough for him. Without Blubber around, Luke accepted that Pat was good enough company, and sat next to him. Rufus and Sawtooth handled their separation just as well; Sawtooth was curled up in the Buzz Wagon, and Rufus had joined Sarge and Meekly.

As for Dick Dastardly and Muttley, it was not as willingly accepted. Just as in Caribou, Muttley was with the car, scowling miserably. It was such a situation that made Muttley wonder if he was just part of the car. Not that Dick was having a particularly wonderful time, either. He stood apart from the others as the lone wolf that he was. During the course of the day, he had been greeted, or rather, acknowledged, by the others, and as he was not a part of any of their circles of friends, he faded into the background. It wasn't as if it was the fact that he wanted to stay out of their small-scale society; Dick was sure he would not know what to do if he did become a part of it.

Tired of being on the edge of the group, Dick went into the hotel to his room. Even there he couldn't escape the sight of the others, enjoying their stay here; his window gave him a perfect view of the pool and one end of the parking lot. He laid back on the bed and stared at the chipping paint on the ceiling, just thinking about anything that came to him. Still, he couldn't help but look out the window every now and again to see what was going on. "Just like always, I'm on the outside looking in. Well, this time I'm on the inside looking out."

Outside, the Ant Hill Mob was swarming around one of the pizzas, looking very much like what their namesake implied. Willy and Danny were having a tug of war trying to separate their slices of pizza, which were connected by a long strand of cheese. Kurby watched the string increase in length as the tug of warriors got farther apart. "Just like the pizza at home!" Willy and Danny tried harder to snap the cheese string when they noticed the motion of some of the others toward it.

Mac produced a Swiss army knife from the folds of his jacket, and with one swish, the string of cheese was split in half. Willy and Danny fell in opposite directions, each holding their slice of pizza, with half the cheese string dangling from the slices. Ring-a-Ding was hysterical; he had never seen anything quite like that before. The rest of the mob joined Ring-a-Ding in his laughter, and even Clyde had to admit that it was mildly amusing.

The mob was like a family on its own, and they got along well with the Slag brothers and the Gruesome Twosome. Big and Little Gruesome felt out of place without all their mystical creatures accompanying them, but they had the Slags. Rock and Gravel weren't mystical by any stretch of the imagination, but they were creatures. 

Naturally, Penelope Pitstop was having a heart-to-heart with Peter Perfect, or rather, had been. Now, she turned her face away from him and stared off into the distance, and the sun sent little reflections bouncing off her rosy pink sunglasses. A tiny voice inside her reminded her of just how much she missed her friends and family in Tennessee, but she tried to squash it. She had other things on her mind, anyway.

Peter looked concerned; it was unlike Penelope to be so quiet. "What are you thinking about?" he asked her, hoping to find out what the problem was.

"Nothing. Just a lil' girl's dream."

"What would that be?" Secretly, he hoped he would figure into this dream somewhere, but he was also quite sure that he wouldn't.

"Yall laugh," she warned him, grinning. "I want to see my name in lights."

"Why would I laugh? I can imagine you on stage in movies"

"Can you?"

"Oh sure. Coming back to racing may just be the break you need." Penelope smiled at him and struck a dramatic pose. She was convinced that he was right, and had been ever since she heard that this race would take place. That moment was when she assured herself that she would prove him right — she would become famous. Of course, getting any amount of notice would require her to win races, but to her, that was just a technicality. Winning would come in time.

What she really wanted was not so much yet another man, even if it was Peter, buttering her up with compliments. While she did harbor deep feelings for him, she was stubbornly positive that he was just saying what he said to win her over. All she wanted was another girl to be her companion for a change. A real friend.

Nonetheless, Peter would do, she told herself. The two were essentially "friends with privileges," and that was the best of both worlds. The structure of friendships and alliances had been reborn. Peter and Penelope of course, were on and off lovers. This made Peter the envy of every male on the racing circuit, and he was secretly proud of it. The Ant Hill Mob, the Slag Brothers, and the Gruesome Twosome got along well, as they were so out of the ordinary. Luke and Pat were complete opposites, but went together like a yin-yang. 

Then there were Rufus, Sarge, and Meekly. These three made up the trio of "real men," and they knew and took great pride in this. They sat by side, swapping tales and jokes of war, women, and anything else that came to mind. Rufus was almost glad of the fact that Sawtooth was not with him; he felt more at home with his two long-time comrades. Conspicuous by his absence from this group was the Red Max.

Max was sitting next to Meekly, most likely out of a desire to not be alone. No one knew much about him, apart from the fact that he was a German pilot. That was what made it seem as if Max would pair off with Dick Dastardly; no one else truly understood either of them, so wouldn't they be able to identify with each other? Whether that had occurred to them or not, it did not seem as though it had.

Even more than that, Max wanted to be a part of Rufus, Sarge, and Meekly's crowd. He wanted to say something, to bring himself into the secret circle. The events of the morning were fresh in his mind, and his greatest fear was how Sarge would react. For such a squat man, Sarge had the presence of a man one hundred times his size, certainly an intimidating thought.

Silently, Max sipped from his glass of beer. He never drank heavily, but the taste reminded him of home, and that was comforting. Even though he was trying to get back into the swing of things here, his mind was elsewhere. It was then he felt the sensation of eyes on him, someone watching him. His heart sped up, but when he looked over, it was only Meekly. Sarge and Rufus were ensnarled in some back and forth conversation that Meekly was no longer a part of, and Max was very much alone.

"We made it through the first race," Meekly remarked, offhandedly.

Max shyly grinned back at Meekly. "You do vell."

It looked to Meekly as though he might be able to bring Max out of his shell. Sarge had always frowned on it, for some reason that was nothing more than a vague notion to Meekly, who wanted to become acquainted with the mysterious airman. "Hey, you crossed the finish line, too."

"In fifz place or so."

"Better than being Dastardly. Last as usual."

"He has never von?"

"Nope. No wins, no placings, zip." Neither of them had given Dastardly much thought after saying a brief hello to him earlier. Both of them were left wondering what it meant to have gone all that time without winning just once.

Something in that reminded Max of the incident that morning. "Sergeant Blast ees angry by zis morning, no?"

Meekly thought about it, first digesting the question, then preparing a response. "Naw. He's always like that. Don't take it personally."

"I am, am I?" At the sound of the voice behind him, Meekly's face flushed red, and he turned sheepishly to Sarge. "And you just let it go when you almost get your head knocked clean off?"

Now it was Max's turn to feel a twinge of guilt and fear. He quickly downed the last few sips of beer, and sat motionless. "Come on, Sarge, he didn't mean it."

Sarge's suspicious glare chilled Max to the bone. Rising from the table, he caught Meekly's eye. "I vill go back to mein room. Goot nacht, Meekly."

"Good night, Max." Meekly was somewhat surprised at Max's abrupt departure. Max had disappeared around the side of the hotel, and was certainly inside. Meekly turned to Sarge. "What did you have to say that for? You know he's sorry."

"We _don't_ know. Accident or not, I know the type." Sarge was the oldest racer on the circuit, and he was quite proud of that. In his 51 years, he had seen the depression, rebellion, and three wars. His stony eyes stared straight ahead, filled with cynicism. He was in no longer in a joking mood.

Although even Rufus wasn't entirely sure himself all Sarge had against Max, he wanted to get Sarge back into the jocular mood he had been in. "Goot nachhht?" He chortled, exaggerating the words for emphasis. Sarge had to laugh at Rufus's mimicry, as he reproduced Max's voice syllable by syllable. Meekly didn't see the same humor in it, but he was sure Sarge and Rufus would get over it.

~*~

By now, the sun had long since set, and darkness was setting in. A few at a time, the racers were retreating out of the nightfall and into their rooms. Just a few blocks away, another hotel was alive with activity. The Black Hills Pioneer journalists were gathered in Bonnie's room, mostly listening to her prattling on.

"You know what we need," she announced, looking more than a little frazzled.

"More coffee."

"Jack Harris, I should" when Jack's eyes widened, she stopped, not entirely sure what she planned to tell him. Regaining her composure, Bonnie tried to ignore him. "We need to do some interviews. Just documenting the races is not enough, we need to"

By now, Laurel was tuning Bonnie out. She rarely got past the first sentence of Bonnie's dictation anyway, so this was not bad for her. Jack was absent-minded, as was his nature, and Julia paid attention for a lack of much else to think about. Ashleigh was watching intently from off to the side because she knew it was expected of her.

Colette's eyes had glazed over, but not out of boredom. She was thinking about something "Colette!" Laurel stage-whispered as she poked Colette in the arm to get her attention.

"Mmmm?"

"I know who you should interview!" Laurel giggled mischievously.

Although she wasn't truly angry, Colette did look annoyed. "Here you go again. You feel a need to remind me of that constantly, don't you?"

"Hey, it's kinda cracked up when you think about it."

"Yeah." Colette stared out the window. There were no lights visible except for the occasional passing car. Bonnie had since stopped bantering and left the others to themselves, and Colette was left to her thoughts.

"Thinking about it?" Laurel had to ask. "I'm sorry, seriously," she apologized for herself hurriedly. "I know you don't like it when I talk about it, but you know me." Laurel pouted her lip, looking like a pleading five-year-old.

"It's alright. I do think about it, even though I don't really want to remember. I always do it, even though I hate it," Colette herself had to laugh at the words.

"And you love it."

"But I hate it," Laurel finished their back-and-forth conversation, then became serious again. "But really, you can't let that ruin your life. Ya gotta move on, meet people. Guys, Colette!"

Colette smacked Laurel with a pillow. "I will when you do!"

~*~

Muttley's ears pricked up at the sound of a voice that rang all too familiar. He had been lying beside the Mean Machine semi-conscious, and was not in the mood to get up. Unwillingly, he forced himself up, and followed the voice up to the wall of the hotel, where he followed the path made by the lit rooms. Only a few windows down, he found his master.

At the window, Dick watched for Muttley, who almost passed him by. Dick didn't look himself; in place of the usual grimace, there was a softer expression crossing his face. There was not a sign of anger, just an old apathy. He was kneeling by the window, with his arms crossed on the windowsill, holding him up. 

Like always, even though Dick rarely spoke a word to anyone, he did save breath enough to speak to Muttley. The dog served as the friend he never had; Muttley knew this, but couldn't help the *occasional* trick at his master's expense. It was his nature. But this was different. There was something about the somber face of his master that told him that this was not the time for such things.

"I didn't want to believe it, but I think it's time I tried to. You remember, how I would win if I just drove." Muttley whimpered, disappointed by Dick's idea. What good would it be for him to be there without his master's drive to win by doing everything but driving? Another thought that struck him was that the races would not be at all the same without the fervent efforts Dick put into every one.

Muttley half expected a bash over the head for his balky look, but Dick wasn't paying attention. It wasn't that he wanted to tell Muttley anything in the least, not right then. All he wanted was to get the words off his chest, and feel as if they were going somewhere. "I don't even know why I couldn't have just made myself do that from the start. But it's something I just can't quit; it's like a cigarette," he continued, more to himself than Muttley, who still listened closely, dumbfounded.

This was not like his master at all. What had caused the sudden change of heart? They had come prepared to pick up where they left off, and now that was over. Dick was still off in his own world. "That was the last thing she said to me. Maybe" He never finished the thought; he only stared straight ahead. Shaking his head, Muttley shuffled back to the car. He was sure in the morning, everything would be back to normal, or what qualified as normal in their case.

~*~

Morning came quickly, and the hotel came alive again. The eleven of them darted around, gathering their belongings, and grabbing a bite to eat. Rufus was irritable; he dragged his feet, still tired. "How are these rest stops' if we don't actually get to rest?"

"We will," Meekly told him. "After every fourth race we get to stay in the city a few days. At least that's what I heard."

Rufus grumbled under his breath. "Geez, three more races? Better get some espresso for the road"

Down the hall, Dick was just waking up to the sounds of movement outside his closed door. He was still by the window, but he was now leaning against the wall. Although he felt exhausted, he knew he had little time to waste, so he collected his things and ran out to the car where Muttley was waiting.

Ever since his return to the car in the night, Muttley was hoping that by morning, Dick's mood would have changed, but he could see right away that it had not.

In less than half an hour, the racers were back at the marker in Salem. Spectators lined the streets, just as they had in Caribou, waving flags and cheering. Of course, news anchors and journalists were all around as well.

The Black Hills Pioneer journalists were off to the side of the street as before, pens quickly scribbling down every last detail. A night's sleep seemed to have done Bonnie good, and she had gotten herself back together. And at that moment, she gave the other reason for her sudden, inexplicable good mood. "Wonderful news, ladies! I have"

"I'm not a lady! And neither are them two!" Jack interrupted loudly, pointing at Laurel and Colette. Laurel punched him in the arm playfully, but with enough force to let Jack know that he was on thin ice. Colette rolled her eyes and made a face. He's right, she sighed silently.

Julia, always curious, wanted to find out what this all-important news was, although she had been momentarily side tracked by Jack's interruption. "So what were you going to say, Bonnie?"

"Oh yes. Jack, I apologize, but since you so rarely listen to a word I say, I didn't think you'd mind if I didn't address you. Anyway, what I was about to say was I've set up a time for us to do some interviews! Not after this race, but the next one. Good? Great?" Clearly, Bonnie was grasping for straws, looking for praise for her fast-talking. "We have to leave for Burlington this minute, so you have the whole drive to work out who you want to interview."

The five of them filed off to Bonnie's van, and Laurel winked at Colette. "Give it up, Laurel. Not gonna happen." Ashleigh followed the two friends, looking confused, as she was left out of this secret they shared that was mentioned constantly over the last two days. I'll figure this out, I always do, she told herself.

Bonnie slowed the van to a crawl in anticipation of the start of the race. **Bang!** The starter gun sounded, and the cars were set in motion. Jack was sitting in the back seat, behind Bonnie. He laughed mischievously, and Bonnie raised an eyebrow. "Something you'd like to share with us, Jack?"

"Heh heh heh uh can I interview that Penelope girl?"

"How about no." Bonnie answered from the front, and the others nodded in agreement.

At the time, Penelope was leading the pack, and her mind was far from interviews. Her main focus was getting where she was going, but she had Peter Perfect on the brain as well. She could see him in her rearview mirror; he was at a safe distance, but he was gaining. From behind Peter Perfect, another car could be seen approaching quickly. The Double Zero.

Both men squeaked past Penelope, who pushed a little more forcefully on the gas pedal. Not that it did her much good; the other two had gotten so far ahead of her. They fought for the lead, but seemed to be evenly matched. For several miles they went on this way, neck and neck. They continued from New Hampshire into Vermont, still side by side.

Muttley's nose was pressed up against the window, he stared out the window with a melancholy expression across his furry face. Dick was clearly becoming more than a little tired of Muttley's moping, but would not let his desire to reform go that easily. "Muttley, I don't care. You can sit like that all day if you damn well want. This is what we're doing now. Face it, we have nothing to lose! Muttley, why are you twisting like that?"

The dog was jumping up and down on the back seat, pointing out the window with his nose. Dick looked up, only to realize that Peter Perfect was now quite far ahead of them, with Penelope Pitstop and Rufus Ruffcut right behind him. Pat Pending appeared soon after, and the five of them desperately competed for the lead. The finish line was in sight, and Rufus Ruffcut pulled ahead. Peter Perfect edged his way up from behind, and the two cars were almost touching. Penelope and Dick tried to pass them on the right, and Pat Pending tried again to get past by changing the Convert-a-Car into its airplane like form and taking to the air. It was anybody's race, but just a few short feet before the finish line, Pat got the short lead he needed

He sat proudly in the winner's circle, pleased with his great start for the race across America. Pat Pending was on a roll. A second place finish in the first race, and now a first place finish! Although the Convert-a-Car was not the most attractive vehicle of the bunch, it was certainly getting the most attention. Pat cackled jubilantly. If he kept this up, he would win for sure. 

The Convert-a-Car: 16

The Army Surplus Special: 11

The Turbo Terrific: 7

The Bullet-Proof Bomb: 5

The Buzz Wagon: 5

The Mean Machine: 2

The Bouldermobile: 2

The Creepy Coupe: 2

The Crimson Haybailer: 2

The Compact Pussycat: 2

The Arkansas Chug-a-bug: 2


	4. Waterloo

Chapter 4: Waterloo

Author's note: Remember, do not email me. I love feedback (as much as I love chocolate) but please, leave it on the review board. Thank u! : )

The hotel in Burlington was far grander than the one in Salem. All the extra space allowed the racers to have their dinner inside instead of out. Pat Pending was beaming, still pleased with himself over his victories so far. Equally pleased with themselves were Peter Perfect, the second place winner, and Rufus Ruffcut, who came in third.

Peter was especially proud; Penelope seemed to be his biggest enthusiast. She was sitting with him at a table for two, as usual. As they made their way to the hotel, cameras had flashed on them at least as often as Pat Pending; possibly more. The on and off romance between them had been on the lips of every devotee of the races, and it looked as if that would be the case this time around as well.

Sitting alone at a table in the corner was Dick Dastardly, unsure of exactly what his reaction to the race was. "I wasn't last," kept running through his head. That was a small victory, but it was something. This would be a shock to everyone — the fact that he was backing away from his typical underhanded approach. But he was sure that, although he had never wanted to admit it, this was the path to a place in the winner's circle. "She was right all along," he admitted to himself again, sheepishly. "I wonder where she is now."

When dinner was over, the racers left for their rooms. This routine was difficult for the Slag brothers to get used to again; they missed the freedom of their cave. After their departure from a room, its restoration became a full-time job. Luke was plagued by a similar problem. Sleeping in an actual "bed" was an unheard of concept. His custom was sleeping wherever he fell, usually on the porch or under a tree outside. 

Peter and Penelope strode arm in arm to their neighboring rooms. They leaned against the wall and watched the others file past. Once the halls were still and empty, Penelope spoke in a musical whisper. "Ya'll did good today, Peter."

"Thanks. I didn't find out I placed until someone told me. It was close." Peter was quiet for a moment, then a thought struck him. "Did you see Dick Dastardly?"

Penelope considered, then shook her head. "No, I didn't notice him. Why?"

"Do you think he's planning something big? You know it almost seemed like he didn't try anything all day."

Although she wasn't terribly interested in Dick Dastardly's racing techniques, she listened to Peter anyway. "He could be. But don't worry your lil' ol' self a whit" when she tried to comfort Peter, Penelope let her southern accent come out. "because I'll always be thayer." By now she was practically whispering in his ear. Leaning closer, she kissed his cheek airily. Peter grinned and returned the kiss to her. With that, they beamed, and went their separate ways. Saying goodbye would have been unnecessary. Both understood the message perfectly.

Morning came quickly, but every driver was able to get up as if they had become immune to the grogginess of the early hours from the last race. Breakfast was nearly nonexistent, only enough to be going on with. No one, with the exception of Rock and Gravel, was starving.

Although every one of them was overjoyed to be back on the racetrack, it had almost seemed too much too soon, and they were worn out. Fortunately, this was their third race, and after the fourth, they would get a couple of days to relax.

Everyone was excited about the race in spite of their fatigue, everyone except Muttley. Dick Dastardly had gotten into the Mean Machine with every intention of racing honestly, and Muttley was still stubbornly disapproving. Win or lose, Muttley wanted to set traps, put up detour signs, let the air out of tires. To him, that was what racing had always been. It had nothing to do with fast cars and everything to do with dirty tricks.

Stealthily, Muttley crept out of the Mean Machine, an idea coming to him. The race was set to start in a few minutes, and the other racers were all in their cars, engines humming. This was a perfect opportunity to pull something, and Muttley quickly tried to think of something to do. And it came to him. His sharp teeth sank into the tough rubber of one of the Mean Machine's tires, and after several snaps, the tire began to sag. Muttley jumped back into the car, his deed done.

To him, it didn't matter whose tires he flattened, or whose car he sabotaged, so long as there was sabotaging to be done. After all, if someone tried such a trick on Dastardly himself, wouldn't he retaliate and be up to his old tricks again? Muttley certainly hoped so.

The gun went off, and so did the other racers, but the Mean Machine's engine just roared furiously. The hair on Dick's neck bristled. Somehow, he knew what was wrong, but as always, was in denial. He jumped out of the car, and saw the flat, trying to imagine what could have caused it. Muttley, all-knowing Muttley, sat in the front seat, pleased with himself. "Hsss-ss-ssss-ssss!" he hissed, tongue hanging out over his bottom lip, as he pressed his nose up against the glass of the window and watched Dick change the tire.

It was every man for himself in the races, come hell or high water. Getting a flat tire or getting caught in any other car problem was just something to be dealt with as if it was part of the race. Once the tire was finally changed, Dick and Muttley were on the road. Muttley was alert and hopeful, assuring himself that Dick would try something in order to slow down the leaders. It was his nature; he would just **have** to.

Meanwhile, Penelope Pitstop was busy taking an early lead. Pat Pending had fought stubbornly with her for it, but in the end she began to edge ahead. She held a comfortable lead, far ahead of the others. "Best be doing my face. I have to look good in the photos of me in the winners' circle." She shuffled through various colors of nail polish, examining each. "Let's see should I choose Scarlet Passion, or Sultry Sunset?"

No one was clearly in second; the rest of the racers were in a cluster about half a mile behind Penelope, and Dick Dastardly was in a distant last place. The Creepy Coupe seemed to be closest to the front, Dragon power was serving them well for a while. The Dragon's wing beats came slower and slower until they stopped altogether and the Creepy Coupe slowed to a crawl. A stream of racers shot past them, and Little Gruesome looked angrily up at the Dragon. "Lazy beast. So much for lucky candles!"

"A séance to settle your nerves?" Big Gruesome suggested, hopefully.

"No. That would take too long. Let's just get back in the race" Little Gruesome mumbled something about potions and dragon's blood, then pushed down on the gas pedal.

Far ahead of the Gruesome Twosome, Rug-Bug-Benny sat attentively at the wheel of the Bullet-Proof Bomb. The other six members of the Ant Hill Mob were slouching in their seats, exhausted from all the driving the past few days had involved. They took turns driving, so each of them only had to drive one leg of the race in a row. Still, it did wear on them. "Ey, Benny. How much farther to Waterloo?" Clyde demanded from the back of the car.

"I dunno, boss."

Kurby looked at the map. "Uhh Foity-five minutes?"

Closing his eyes, Clyde reclined in his seat. "Good. I'z getting tired of drivin'."

Also tired of driving, Dick Dastardly sank back in his seat, sullenly staring straight ahead. The Creepy Coupe was now visible on the horizon, and Dick felt a sense of pride for overcoming the great distance that had built up between him and the others. 

Muttley looked pleased with himself, and was sure that Dick would create some sort of bizarre scheme to get ahead of the Creepy Coupe. Whether the wheels were turning or not, Dick didn't appear to be concocting anything. He was stolid, immovable. Frustrated by the lack of attention he was getting, Muttley whined, increasing in volume.

As hard as Muttley was trying to garner Dick's attention, Dick was trying all the harder to ignore it. By the time Muttley was practically howling, Dick glanced down at him. "What is it, Muttley?" he snarled, becoming impatient with Muttley's protesting.

Again, Muttley looked out the front window at the Creepy Coupe, which was becoming gradually closer. After some wheezy laughter, Muttley looked to Dick for approval. "You just don't understand, do you? I want to try something just as much as you do, but it did us no good. I've told you that a thousand times. The only way to be sure to win is to eliminate all the others, but we could never even do that." He paused, eyes narrowing. Leaning back, recumbent in his seat, the Double Zero shot past the Creepy Coupe.

"Besides, that was just one more thing Colette couldn't stand about me."

Still up in front, Penelope Pitstop was blissfully picturing herself signing autographs and getting her picture taken for the cover of scads of newspapers. The amount of time she had spent there had ended her concern for where the other racers were. Her followers had remained more or less in a cluster some distance back, although one would pull ahead from time to time. This was what was happening again.

For the most part, second place seemed to have been held by the Slag Brothers since the Creepy Coupe had dropped so far back. Nonetheless, the Crimson Haybailer abruptly came blasting past them, as if out of thin air. In a way, that was the case, as the Red Max had managed to leave himself enough room to get over them and assume second place.

Max considered continuing his flight to the lead, but after a glance over his shoulder, decided against it. Although lost in the sea of followers, Sarge stared up at him, steely eyed, from the top of the Surplus Six. Keeping that in mind, Max was not willing to attempt to fly into the lead if it meant running the risk of getting his tail shot off. A maladroit, but harmless landing secured him in second place, only a few feet behind Penelope.

Only once he had regained his balance did Max take notice of Penelope. Like every other man on the racecourse, Max was not immune to her feminine charm. In the early days of the races in 1968, before Peter Perfect unofficially claimed Penelope as his, Max had spoken with her, shy though he was. What particularly struck him now was that what had motivated him to speak solely to her at first was the fact that she seemed far less intimidating than anyone else.

His aim was to project an image of being worldly-wise, when Max was somewhat naïve in truth. He knew the evils war and hatred could cause, but he had never seen their effects with his own eyes. His instincts told him about women, but he had never before acted on them. He was chaste in mind and body, and that was what directed him to Penelope, who seemed just as innocent as he did.

At the time, although their relationship remained strictly platonic, Max secretly wanted it to become more than that. Before that could happen, they started to grow apart. It seemed as if over night, they were suddenly perfect strangers. Max never fully understood the cause of it, but it seemed that the more she changed, the more he stayed the same. By the end of two years, she was no longer the wholesome country girl she had once been. She had become street-smart and manipulative, even if it was still masked by the sweet face of a Tennessee girl.

Now that they were not even companions anymore, he could have hidden feelings for her, and he certainly did. Instead of only seeing her as a comfortable sister-figure, he could focus on her appearance, and everything that made her attractive in a new way. Part of the attraction lay in her unavailability, as she and Peter were still an on-and-off item. 

Years earlier, he had being prepping himself to say something to her about making the transition beyond friendship, but Peter Perfect had beaten him to it. Max regretted his halting cowardice, but had to admit that there was little he could do about it now.

Penelope, on the other hand, was not so affected by their brief amity. She vaguely remembered it as she noticed the Crimson Haybailer in her rearview mirror, but didn't give it a second thought. To her, men were no longer "friends." Those she paid attention to fell into two categories: lovers and losers. As Max was neither in her mind, she gave him little thought. Peter was a lover, to put it simply. During their time apart, he was out of sight and therefore out of mind. That was no matter; she found one replacement after another. That was apparently quite unknown to Peter, and if it wasn't, it was irrelevant. 

Changes had ended a romance between Max and Penelope before it started, but Max never lost hope that that could change. Even though he was drawn in by her allure, he was in a race right then, and had to put that first. By now, he was right behind Penelope, and would have to drop back if he wanted to get ahead.

Lessening the pressure he applied on the gas, Max began to drop back. As he did, a car or two passed him, and slipped into the gap he was creating to use as a runway. Max's eyes widened, as he now found himself in fourth place suddenly. "Vhat? It vork so vell ze forst time," he sighed, trying to maneuver back up, but was having difficulty doing so.

While Max fought to regain his position farther back, a very diverted Ant Hill Mob had wound up in second place, and managed to squeak past Penelope. With the exception of the driver, the mobsters were either asleep or semi-conscious from the tedious driving. A bump on the road jostled them around, and all closed eyes popped open for a second, then half-shut again. But Rug-Bug-Benny remained vigilant.

"Ey, Benny. How much farther to Waterloo?" Clyde demanded again.

Again, everyone heard the crackle of Kurby fussing with the map. "Foity-five minutes?"

"Yous said that an hour ago," Clyde spat at him, looking annoyed. The mob was quiet for quite some time, thinking, dozing, wishing the trip was over at the promise of a rest stop.

Only Rug-Bug-Benny remained alert, and after hearing nothing but the hum of the engine for ages, he spoke. "Okay, yous have to choose. Eithuh yous take some real dull rusty scissuhs, and yous cut off yuh bottom lip. Yous cut and cut until it's off. Bottom lip. Gone. Or yous have to kiss one of the othuh mugs in here. Wuddaya choose? Yous have to choose!"

The mob was still silent, not so much out of interest as out of surprise. Never before had Rug-Bug-Benny said so much at one time. "That musta been buildin' up fuh years," Willy whispered to Mac. Then, Willy spoke to the whole group. "Yous mugs is my gang. But I couldn't ey, Benny. Would somebody be dere to bandage up the lip?"

Rug-Bug-Benny thought about it, then answered, "Dere would be a medical expert, yes."

"_Which_ uthuh mug in here?"

"It don't matter."

Willy, Danny, and Kurby looked at each other and nodded. Danny spoke for the three. "Well, wez guess wez gonna have to go lip."

Willy picked up from there. "Wuh bou' yous, Clyde? Kiss or lip?"

"Gotta be lip. The thought of kissing yous mugs Ring-a-Ding, whaddaya doing'?"

Ring-a-Ding was digging around between the cushions in the back seat. "Tryin' to find the scissuhs."

"Yous don't have to do it, really." Danny reminded him. Ring-a-Ding looked relieved, and the mob gave Mac an encouraging look.

In the corner of the back seat, Mac was contemplating the decision. I can't give up my lip, but I don't want dem to think I'm euh "I'z gonna go lip, too."

Liar, each of the other mobsters thought silently. They had been wrapped up in their peculiar conversation, that nothing else was given much thought, until now. "Look Benny. Izat the finish line?" Kurby asked, pointing.

Clyde and Benny followed the direction of Kurby's finger, and it certainly was the finish line. Ring-a-Ding looked out the back window and saw the distant silhouettes of a few vehicles, but they were so far back that not one would be able to catch them. Sure enough, they couldn't, and the Ant Hill Mob crossed the finish line first.

Second in line was Penelope Pitstop, still followed by the Red Max. Max knew the finish line was not far away, and reminded himself that if he could get in front of Penelope, he might have a chance. The Compact Pussycat took up most of the road, as Penelope had taken to driving right in the center. If the Crimson Haybailer didn't have its wings, there would be room to drive past. Flying over her was possible, but that would mean slowing down so there was room to take off.

With a certain amount of apprehension, Max braked, slowing the Haybailer down enough for him to attempt a take off. He was at the ready, all set to push down on the gas pedal. In an attempt to soothe his pounding heart, Max took a deep breath, then looked ahead again. Those short seconds had been just enough time for the Arkansas Chug-a-Bug to squeeze past him. Luke was reclining on the rocker, feet on the steering wheel, not showing any sort of concern as to what was going on.

Blubber whimpered and poked Luke in the shoulder, but Luke was in his own dimension. He gave the wheel a nudge with his right foot and was side by side with Penelope. Reaching an arm back listlessly, Luke searched for a cord attached to the Chug-a-Bug's boiler. Finding it, he gave it a tug, steam spurted out of the boiler, and the Chug-a-Bug spluttered and lurched forward. By the time they reached the finish line, the Chug-a-Bug was a full car length ahead of Penelope, making them the second and third place winners. Another race was over.

Hours after the race ended, Bonnie and the Black Hills Pioneer journalists sat in her van under a darkened sky. "So you've all worked out who you're going to interview?" The heads bobbed up and down, and Bonnie relaxed tense muscles. "Good. See you later," she continued without looking up again. The five journalists got out of the van and filed into the Waterloo hotel where the racers were staying.

"Are you sure you want to do this? I could trade you if you want," Laurel whispered to Colette.

Filled with determination, Colette nodded. "I have to do it. I got fourth choice, so I have to take what I got. And I think it would do Dick good to see where I am now."

Laurel tossed her curls from side to side. "Yeah, and Ashleigh definitely has it worst!"

In the lobby, there were several small groups of journalists, which allowed the Black Hills Pioneer journalists to breathe a sigh of relief. This was nothing like the jungle of cameras and reporters like they had seen at the winner's circle. The crowd was gradually thinning, and each of the five Black Hills Pioneer journalists to begin their interviews.

Ashleigh whipped a pen out from behind her ear. "Lucky me, three teams to interview." Gathering her thoughts together, she searched for the Gruesome Twosome.

Across the room, Jack and Luke stood face to face. Jack was unsure how to start. The two had greeted each other, but not another word had been spoken. Luke was leaning against the wall with his arms crossed and a childlike grin on his face, as if he just wanted a casual conversation. "So, how"

"Hey there, we've howdied, but we hain't shook yet. Whadda folks call yer?"

Jack looked confused, but told Luke his name. "And what does folks call you?" He asked in return.

"Folks calls me Luke James."

"Luke James is that it?" Jack asked.

"That's all. I don' have no idear why I gots two farst names but no las' name."

"So, Luke, you placed second in today's race, even though you have some of the wordshuh?" Jack was reading the question off his hand, and had done a poor job of writing it down. "Oh, _worst_ odds to win overall. What do you have to say to that?"

"Don' make me no never mand what them folks say. Even a blind hog finds a acorn once in a while," Luke twanged back in what seemed to be one long sentence. Jack took no insult, as there was no venom in his words. When his monologue was finished, the two laughed, and picked up with questions again.

"This has nothing to do with anything, but do you think Pat Pending would mind me interviewing him too?"

"Gawd, no. He my pal. Come wi' me, we gon' go fand im." Luke grabbed Jack's wrist and led him in Pat's directing. Even when carried only by his own two feet, Luke still moved at a steady, leisurely gait.

Piling up all the courage within her, Colette knew what lay ahead of her. His back was facing her, but Colette was all too familiar with Dick Dastardly. She was nervous, but ready to stop running away. She gave Dick a tap on the shoulder, and with a whirl of his long coat, he turned, only to find himself face to face with his last and only ex-girlfriend.

His jaw dropped against his will, but he didn't want her to know just how surprised he was at her arrival. "Colette. Long time no see," he commented in an oily voice. He wanted to come across as the same man she knew; by no means would he admit that he was taking her last advice to him. 

"I see you've changed a lot," Colette snapped, sarcastically, taking in his appearance and presence.

"So have you," Dick answered back in the same tone as he looked her up and down. "But I never thought you would seriously become a journalist."

Colette felt her old wounds being opened again, freeing the fire that they held captive. "I know why I left you, and that was one of the reasons. You never thought I could be my own person."

"You needed me. You wouldn't have gotten through college if I hadn't been there!"

"I needed **_you_**? I needed you to leave me alone, if that's what you mean. You weren't my master."

"Whore," he muttered under his breath. Colette was speechless, unable to one-up him.

"This is an interview. It has nothing to do with us in the past, and everything to do with you right now. Can we just get on with it please?"

"Fine, sure, whatever you say, Collie." He answered defensively, flinging his arms out.

"One more thing. Don't call me that anymore." Colette frowned, despising his old nickname for her. She looked forward to when this long night would be over.

"No no nooooo!" Ashleigh flung her arms out in a reflex, fully prepared to ward off blows. Papers scattered across the floor around her. Rock Slag was charging straight for her, club in hand, and Gravel was holding onto the end of the club, being dragged along behind. 

"Uggg urg ooga!" Rock grunted, leaping around Ashleigh. When she realized that he was not planning to hit her, Ashleigh had to laugh at his tribal dance. Gravel tried to apologize for Rock's antics, but his prehistoric mother tongue was completely foreign to Ashleigh, who could only nod her head.

Not far away, Julia was having much better luck. After a successful interview with the victorious Ant Hill Mob, she was having a heart-to-heart with Penelope Pitstop. "Julia, just whayer did you get those adorable boots?"

"I can't think. I've had them forever! But I wish I could drive that far that fast and not have one hair out of place."

"Oh, I did my face on the way here. I don' need a beauty parlor when I have my car."

"Is that what made you want to race again?"

"That was one of the reasons. I missed Peter, of course. But I also thought that if I got some notice here, I could become an actress."

"You want to be an actress? I used to want to be one, too," Julia answered joyously.

"What changed your mind?"

Julia stared at the floor. "I couldn't get into an acting school. So, here I am."

To Penelope, Julia was the most acceptable person she had come across in ages, maybe more so than Peter. Female companionship was something that would do her definite good, and Julia seemed to be her long-lost twin. "Julia, you're going to Montague like we are, right?"

"Yeah, we're gonna follow the whole race."

"Well, since we stay thayer for a while, we could have a girls' day out. What do you think?"

Julia's eyes lit up. "Really? Me and you? That'd be great!" Very rarely did Penelope suggest something like this to a person unless she had a hidden motive behind it. This was one of those very rare times.

Colette, having finished her interview with Dick, which seemed to last longer than their relationship did, set off for her other interview. Laurel tracked Colette down and cheered her up with jubilance all over her pudgy face. "Finished with my interviews. They ended way to soon. Peter Perfect and Rufus Ruffcut. I'm so glad I got first choice! So, how was the interview with lover-boy? Sorry, **ex**-lover-boy?"

"Juuuust great."

"Who do you have now?"

"Red Max he's the one we never hear about, isn't he?"

Laurel considered for a moment, then the light came on. "I think he's the one who almost knocked your head off with his car that first day."

"Oh, you're right! Well, it can't be as bad as'ex-lover-boy'."

"See ya in a bit!" Laurel announced to Colette, and the two went their separate ways.

"Red Max?" Colette spoke softly, unsure about how to speak to him. The good thing about Dick was his familiarity.

"Ja? Oh, hello," Max answered back, softly as well. He was taken by surprise, and his face reddened to match his jacket.

Colette picked up on his anxious vibes. "Do you mind if I interview you?"

"No, interview ees fine."

"How has it been adjusting to the races again?" The incident of the first day was in her mind.

"Deefficult. I haff not driven ze Crimson Haybailer in so long, it ees deefficult to control. Und I miss my home."

"Where is that?"

"Mannheim, in Vest Germany."

"That would be tough to get used to. Do you want to go back?"

"I vant to be going, but racing ees a part of me, too." There was something about his quietly honest answers that intrigued Colette. Max was a mystery. No one before her had bothered to find out much about him. She was determined to make herself the first.

"Max is there a last name that goes with that?" Colette posed the question more out of curiosity than anything else.

"Eisenreich. Max Eisenreich. Your name?"

"My name's Colette DesCroix."

"Hello, Colette."

"Hello, Max."

The Convert-a-Car: 17

The Bullet-Proof Bomb: 15

The Army Surplus Special: 12

The Arkansas Chug-a-bug: 8

The Turbo Terrific: 8

The Compact Pussycat: 6

The Buzz Wagon: 6

The Mean Machine: 3

The Bouldermobile: 3

The Creepy Coupe: 3

The Crimson Haybailer: 3


	5. Montague

Chapter 5: Montague

radually, the lobby began to clear out. Before long, the racers were left to themselves, most of them ready to drop. With a few parting words to one another, they filed off to their separate rooms, jointly accepting that they all lacked the energy for any social activity. Ironically, Dick Dastardly seemed to be the only one with vigor left in his system, but he wasn't about to let the others know it.

Across town, Colette was flopped down on her bed, tracing the embroidered patterns on the comforter with a finger. Suddenly, a pillow came flying at her from the next bed over, barely missing her. "What?" She was half screaming and half laughing as she looked for Laurel, the source of the pillow.

"It's not like you to not say anything for almost two hours. Either you're really pissed off, or it's something else."

"Maybe both."

Running chubby fingers through her curls, Laurel sighed. "Let me guess. Interviews from hell?"

"I guess you could say that."

"Well, we already knew one was screwed over before it started. But was the interview with that Max guy bad too?"

Colette sat up with her legs crossed. "He called me Collie."

"Who, Max?"

"No! Dick." Colette threw the pillow back at Laurel.

"Better than some of the other things he's called you. Or when I called you Frenchy-Four-Eyes in second grade."

"Yeah, I remember that one," after a reminiscent giggle, Colette took off her glasses and rested them on the bedside table. "But how did your interviews go?"

"This was big, like prom big. I actually talked to Peter Perfect and Rufus Ruffcut!" Laurel clasped her hands over her heart, and fell backwards on her bed.

With Laurel's eyes focused on the ceiling, Colette jumped over to Laurel's side to regain her attention. "You sound like you've got a crush"

"Hey. I know what comes next. You're going to tell me you think they are miles out of my league. Well, I seriously think Rufus was checking me out." Colette tried to turn her head from Laurel, as if to shield the face she impulsively made. "I know that look. Well, if you're such a sex goddess, how did your interviews go, Collie?" 

"You _know_ how the first one went."

"_You_ know that's not the one I mean."

Colette was not the only one wanting to forget her first interview of the evening. Much as he tried to shut the encounter out of his mind, it was impossible for Dick Dastardly to forget. He sat at the table by his window and looked out. He was on the fourth floor, so he had a view of the city from quite a distance. Lights flashed on and off like a cluster of fireflies, and he couldn't help but remember that Colette was out there somewhere, not far away.

"It was always one extreme or the other. There was never a middle ground. I can't believe we lasted as long as we did. The lows were so low, but the highs were incredible." In all the years they had been apart, Dick hadn't given her half the amount of thought as he had given her this evening. One thing that he had never processed before was just occurring to him now after so much thought about Colette Muttley.

Outside, Muttley was in thought, trying to put a history to the face that he had seen pass the Mean Machine. Her appearance, her smell, the sound of her footfalls, it all added up to one person. It was only a small sliver of Muttley's young life that he spent around Colette, but it was good for him, and he remembered her for it. Every time she stopped by in those past years, she was never short of dog treats. He never really knew what became of her, he was thrilled to see her again, as she was the loving owner he never had. The disappearance of this source of affection had only ill effects on Muttley, which had been present in him ever since.

Dick, on the other hand, knew Colette had never been a fan of dogs, but Muttley was nearly human in her eyes, like a little brother. Many times Dick had fought to convince himself that Colette was there to be with him, and not Muttley, but as time went on, it became increasingly difficult to believe it. Muttley never wanted to be any part of their conflicts, but on the rare occasion that he did, it was obvious which side he would take.

In every relationship a person has, the best and the worst always stand out in memories. The worst were bolder and brighter in Dick's few distinguishable recollections of Colette. Mostly, one image stood out. He was yelling at Muttley. No, he was yelling at her. "Do I even matter to you anymore?"

Her mouth was moving, and sounds came out in a fury, but he was raging as well, and unable to listen. After pacing back and forth for quite some time, trying to hold an explosion in, it couldn't be done anymore. So many times, he had wanted to lash out at her, especially in times when she angered him so much. It was as if she wanted to escape him; but every time he tightened the reins, she got farther out of his reach. He wanted to see her in pain, to come crawling back to him, wild with fear, looking to him to patch everything up, and heal every wound

When she was no longer present to see what he did, Muttley took the damage intended for her. Although Dick never really wanted to see his dog suffer through what was meant for someone else, he made a more willing target. And in his mind, he could picture Colette, who was already an animal in his mind, wallowing in blood in the dog's place.

"I never thought I could love someone, and then hate her so quickly." It wasn't so much that he had ever hated her; in his mind, he felt he had been chasing after her since day one, and that she had slipped farther and farther away until she was gone. Making that even worse was that he was convinced that she had been leading him on, only playing with his emotions to see what he would believe.

He slid his long jacket from his back, revealing bony shoulders and a delicate physique beneath his black undershirt. In doing so, he could picture himself in a different time and a completely different place. Unwilling to dignify Colette with another moment of his thought, Dick kicked off his boots and jumped into bed forcefully. Turning off the light, he instinctively reached forward, as if to touch someone lying beside him. As he remembered that no one was there, he withdrew his hand, and closed his eyes. He was alone now.

"What? Are you for serious?" Laurel was very much awake.

"Shhhh. Don't yell." Colette warned her, in a futile effort to calm her. Leaning back on the bed, Laurel reached into her pocket for a cigarette and a lighter. "Didn't Bonnie tell you she didn't want you to do that?"

"No, she said, Laurel, I don't want to see you smoking in here again.' Number one, she didn't want to _see_ me smoking, and she _can't_. And two, we were in her office when she said that."

A very impressed, yet confused, Colette stared blankly back at her. "Only you would remember so much just to prove something like that."

Puffs of smoke drifted across the room. "I needed that. But back to the important thing. You have a date in two days ooooh" Laurel's heart had never left grade school.

"It's not a date really. I just met him a few hours ago, and I only spent about half an hour with him."

"So he could be Dick Dastardly all over again for all you know?"

"Laurel, it isn't a date, so it's not the same thing. And he seems like a straight arrow to me." Colette's frustration with Laurel's innocent game-playing was building. Laurel was equally frustrated with Colette's casual attitude. To Laurel, practically any situation that involved a male and female together was a date. And any date was a newsworthy event. "Plus, he would be alone otherwise. All the other racers are friends with each other, and even Dick has Muttley."

"I think there's more to it than that. You must just a little" Laurel was clearly grasping at straw, trying to get something out of her friend. If nothing else, this was what gave Laurel an edge in journalism. She would pry without end until she got what she wanted.

"Well"

"Well? The first step to recovery is admitting you have a problem."

"Well, he's a man in uniform, isn't that enough? Ok, and I think his accent is kind of cute."

"Aha! I knew it!" Proud of her work, Laurel jumped to her feet and danced across the bed, bouncing Colette into the air as well. The two laughed harder than they had for ages, even though Colette knew that Laurel had found something new to blackmail her with. 

A few minutes of this passed, then a banging sound boomed from behind them. "Quiet in there!" Bonnie clearly didn't see the humor of the moment, which was just as well.

Once the bouncing had stopped, Colette and Laurel had gotten her wild laughter under control. "I guess you're going to tell everyone now, aren't you?"

"Naaah. I'll save it for later. But I never would have thought, you and the Red Max. Gotta say that I didn't expect that from you. Especially since I thought foreign accents pissed you off."

"Only fake ones. You know, like when you pretend to be Paul McCartney. That always drove me crazy."

"But Max's accent drives you crazy in a good way. See, I told you you'd find someone new!"  
"Do you think he'll even like me, like that? It's not a date."

Laurel looked thoughtful. "You've dated before. I think you can handle it."

"That's nothing to go by! Think about it." Too much too soon was all Colette could imagine. Twenty-four hours earlier, she hadn't even planned on looking for new boyfriend material. Now she was trying to get back to her girlfriend mode. She was still trying to convince herself that the next evening would not be a date, although that was what she inwardly wanted it to be. In fact, Max was the last person she had envisioned herself with, especially after the first day. That was the only time she had given him any thought at all. Until tonight.

"You're right. Well, I really don't know what to tell you. You're the one with all the experience."

"Great. I've lost control of my life." Colette raised a hand to her forehead. "Oh well. At least this will be a more interesting out of control that usual. You don't think he's gonna wear that uniform then, do you?"

"With you around, he won't for very long!" Laurel was in hysterics again, but Colette was too tired to care. Whatever the days in Montague held in store for her, she was unsure. The best she could hope for was an evening out. Away from work, and Bonnie's constant motherly nagging.

Morning was anticipated with the prospect of a three-day stay in Montague, New Jersey. For Dick Dastardly, the night dragged by like a thousand years. Every few hours he would wake, only to toss and turn until he finally dropped off from exhaustion. Not that all the other racers had a perfectly restful night; many were ready for the next day to arrive, and their inability to sleep showed it.

Penelope never slept any longer than she needed to, and this morning was no exception. At a little before six, she sat up and shook her head, running her fingers through the fluffy blonde mass that framed her face. She sighed and slid out of bed, blinking to rid her eyes of their bleariness. Even in the northern states, September still clung its summery feel, and light was already beginning to trickle between the slats of the venetian blind on the window.

Once she reached the bathroom, she set about dealing with her hair. Several knots later, she was awake, and determined to do just as she had the day before. No better. "A few trips to the winner's circle are all I need. One moment in the lil' ol' spotlight will lead to another." As far as she was concerned, she stood out on the circuit, and placings would add to her notoriety. It was entirely possible that if the right people were watching her at just the right moment, her reputation as a glamorous actress in the making would not go untouched. 

She did, after all, have an advantage. Being the only female in the race was a definite asset. Just as she had assured herself all along, she had no competitor able to resist her, not even Dick Dastardly could bring himself to do so every time. The time Penelope was putting into her appearance was not only to provide herself with the boost she needed. It was part of her strategy. 

By the time she was finished, morning had come. She prepared to leave for the lobby, where everyone else would be waiting to check out. Gathering a pile of various cosmetics and organizing them in a plastic violet case was time consuming, but part of her routine. This plastic case held all kinds of other small odds and ends, things that might come in handy at any given time. Various compartments contained spools of thread, a small notepad filled with names, phone numbers, and even song lyrics, and shoe polish. Going downstairs could wait. Penelope was thrilled at these discoveries. During the summer she had put this collection of items together, and now was a chance to see all she had prepared herself with.

In one of the last compartments, Penelope unearthed something she couldn't believe she thought to add. "The pill?" She was surprised at her discovery, then mentally gave herself a pat on the back. Considering it again, she giggled, "I was thinking ahead!" As she stood prepared to put the pills away and head for the lobby, she decided against it and made a quick trip back to the bathroom to take a pill. When she returned, she marked the date and time down in her little notepad. "Gotta remember that." Everything was in order, and once she had satisfied herself of that, she finally left for the lobby.

She found herself to be one of the last ones down. The others were seated in overstuffed threadbare chairs around a glass table littered with old magazines and ashtrays. Penelope stood in line at the front desk, behind the Gruesome Twosome. Little Gruesome was too short to see over the desk, so Big Gruesome was left to deal with everything, and seemed to be struggling to do so. "You keep your Book of Shadows in your wallet but not your money?" Big Gruesome stared down at Little Gruesome awaiting an explanation.

"You never know when you might need it!"

Even though it meant being held up, Penelope didn't mind listening to their conversation. It was amusing, to say the least. Peter Perfect was sitting in the circle around the table already, covering his nose because the Ant Hill Mob's smoking was getting to him, but he still managed to talk on and off with Rufus Ruffcut.. He had missed Penelope over the years, and he was thrilled that he had met up with her again. So much time had gone by since he last heard from her, he had been afraid that she had found someone else and started a family. Still, he knew deep down that that was not Penelope's style; she preferred her freedom. Peter knew that, as he had tried once, but somehow, it never came about.

Quickly, Penelope checked out, and carried her things over to where the others were. Without a word, she stalked in Peter's direction, until she stood right behind him. He was unaware of her until she laid a hand on his shoulder. "Good morning, pretty Penny." For quite some time, Penelope had forgotten the old nickname. Now, multiple occasions of getting a flat tire and being greeted by Peter, more than ready to offer his assistance.

"Hey," Rufus snorted, glancing over at Peter while Sarge and Meekly still bantered away, not seeming to notice that Rufus was no longer listening. "I didn't know you two were still together."

"I guess you could say that, " Peter answered him, looking more at Penelope than Rufus.

"Thank so!" Giggling, Penelope leaned down and kissed Peter on the cheek again.

Rufus snorted again, shutting his eyes and looking unmistakably tired. "Save it for when we get to Montague."

Straw hat tilted over his eyes, Luke was slouched in his chair. His hands were laced on his stomach, and his feet rested on the table. For him, life was spent for the most part semiconscious. Pat Pending wanted to sit in the empty chair next to Luke, but almost tripped over Luke's extended legs on his way there. "Luke, put your feet down. Don't do that in public." Pat's frustrated face was the first thing Luke saw when he lifted the brim of his hat.

"Dang, don't pitch a hissy fit. I'm movin'em."

Pat looked at his watch. "We should all be moving our feet. The race starts in 45 minutes." Everyone was now listening, then moving.

Within a half hour, the eleven cars were lined up at the starting line, some of the engines already humming as they warmed up. Unlike the other races they had been in so far, this one began in a city, as opposed to the close-knit towns they were used to. People formed a thick line on the side of the street opposite to the hotel. The sound of the cheering was deafening, something like the roar of the ocean. The Ant Hill Mob ducked into the Bullet-Proof Bomb, desperately seeking protection from the noise. Ring-a-Ding and Danny stared blankly into the throng. "Clyde, why are they cheering now when usually they just scream when they see us?"

"Because theyz know we already have an alibi."

The starter gun sounded, and the racers took off in a cloud of dust. The noise was almost unbearable, between the cheers of the onlookers and the roaring of engines. Much like the previous race, Penelope Pitstop took an early lead, maintaining it easily throughout the race. Close behind her were Peter Perfect, the Gruesome Twosome, and the Red Max.

Unexpectedly, the Gruesome Twosome began to pull ahead. They were side by side with Penelope, and Peter and Max were side by side behind them. They neared the finish line, still forming a square. Just before they reached it, the Creepy Coupe's dragon was beginning to feel the exhaustion of his tired wings, slowing down gradually.

Giving it all she had, Penelope was determined not to let victory slip through her fingers so easily. The Compact Pussycat blasted forward, and the three cars behind her, the Creepy Coupe, Turbo Terrific, and Crimson Haybailer crossed the line nearly in unison.

It didn't take long to determine that the Creepy Coupe had claimed second. Figuring out third was more difficult. Several minutes elapsed as the other racers began to trickle in, Dick Dastardly among the first. Upon the sight of the four racers already in the winners' circle, Dick slammed a fist down on the steering wheel. "I can't believe we got so low on gas that early in the race. We had a full tank last night!" Dick muttered to no one in particular. "It's like we're cursed." Muttley snickered quietly, again proud of himself for continuing the legacy Dick had given up on.

Peter and Max had gotten out of their cars and stood next to each other, awaiting the results. "Whatever happens, we both did well." Shaking Max's hand, Peter hoped beyond all hope that he had found himself a place in the winners' circle.

"Yes, very close." Max's heart was in his throat. He was anxious by nature, and this was no exception.

Before long, the official results came out. "After watching a slow-motion replay, we have confirmed that Penelope Pitstop is our winner, the Gruesome Twosome were second, and" the voice paused, and not a sound was audible as anticipation built. Peter and Max held their breath. "and the Red Max is third by a fraction of a second!"

Max placed one hand on the side of the Crimson Haybailer as he recovered from the surprise of the good news. "Congratulations, Max!" Peter shook Max's hand again, masking his disappointment at the decision.

"Zank you! Vas close, you vin next race."

"Hope so. Thanks!" Peter was determined to accept the news graciously, although it certainly wasn't easy. From across the winners' circle, Peter noticed Penelope waving to him. "See you later, Max." Peter left, going off in her direction, preparing to hand out more congratulations, still wishing he could have landed a placing as well.

Now alone, Max sighed contentedly. He had gotten third! While he prided himself on how well he had done, he was sure he heard someone call his name. It wasn't a cheer, it was a call; someone wanted his attention. He turned in what he thought was the direction of the voice. Lining the street was the mass of faces that came with the territory, and he tried to pick out a familiar face. 

The call came again, from a dark-haired girl near the street, but a little behind the finish line. It was Colette. Still in the street, he approached her, still grinning with satisfaction. After a quick word, Max returned to the Crimson Haybailer, starting it up again for the trip to the hotel in Montague. The entire group of racers was looking forward to their two-day stay there.

The Black Hills Pioneer journalists shared the feeling, but like a family, there were rough spots. "Jack Harris! We haven't been on assignment a week yet and already I want to go back." Bonnie fell onto her bed, tired. 

At the same time, Jack was leaning against the wall with a shocked stare on his face. "What's wrong?"

"What's wrong? Your interview was nonexistent. Didn't you think you should probably use more than half a page for each one?"

Still oblivious to Bonnie's distress, Jack looked blank, while Ashleigh, Colette, Laurel, and Julia tried to hide their desire to double over in laughter. Jack was so blissfully unaware that he was already in danger of Bonnie losing her temper and him losing his job. "Uh maybe?"

"Girls, you can go, you've been doing well. Jack, get away before I have a heart attack." Jack grinned, looking like a child with a new toy. He made a beeline for his room, wanting to watch the movies he had rented, all of them ones that would certainly give Bonnie a heart attack.

Julia and Ashleigh got on well because Julia loved to talk, while Ashleigh mostly listened. They slipped away to their room. Ashleigh had brought her Tarot deck and Julia was eager for Ashleigh to do a reading for her.

None of the journalists Bonnie had been put in charge of had abandoned their schoolyard days altogether. Colette and Laurel were sitting opposite each other once again on one of the beds in their room. "So" Laurel knew she didn't need to say any more for Colette to know what would come next, but she continued. "have you talked to Max today?"

"Hardly. Just managed to get a word in after the race ended."

True to her ways, Laurel pushed for details. "What did you talk about?"

"We didn't have _time_ to talk about anything. We just agreed to meet at the coffee shop downtown at eight-thirty tomorrow night." Colette paused and traced the patterns in the bed's duvet, a nervous compulsion of hers. Suddenly, she looked up, concerned. "What do you think Bonnie would think about this, if she knew?"

"I don't know. I guess I never thought about it before. And of course she would have an opinion on it." To Laurel, Bonnie was the stereotypical destroyer of all enjoyable things. As far as she was concerned, Colette's newfound friendship was just as interesting to her as it was to Colette, maybe more. Bonnie finding out could mean loss of that recreation. Laurel had already taken it upon herself to see to it that Colette would elevate this friendship to a new level. While that was processing in Laurel's mind, another notion made an appearance. "Colette, I've got to ask you something. I never thought of it before. Did Bonnie know about you and Dick?"

With an uneasy smile, Colette considered it. "I don't doubt it. Everyone seemed to know. She's never mentioned it though. I'm grateful for that."

"Something else, too. You always told me everything that went on between you and Dick when you were together, but I never knew how you met."

"Are you sure?" Shocked, Colette stared at Laurel open-mouthed. "I was sure I had."

"Nope. If you had, I'd remember."

"Think back to when we were in college. You used to sneak into my dorm room, and we'd watch the races on tv. One day, we heard that they were going to race across the Dakotas. It was on the local news as soon as the stations heard about it. Since the finish line wasn't going to be too far from where we were, we went to watch. 

"It was hours. We were all lined up in the town, waiting for them to show up. The Double Zero was the first one we saw coming in, and everyone was cheering. It didn't matter that it was just him. Everyone wanted him to win, but at the same time we didn't, you know?" 

Until that moment, Laurel had little or no recollection of that day, but the Dakota Derby was starting to come back to her. "Yeah. He put so much effort into it, everyone did want to see him win just once."

Even Colette had to nod in agreement. "But then when he was coming in toward the finish line, he was arrested because they thought he was some criminal on the run. I'm not surprised, he always looked the part. So while everyone's snapping pictures of the winners, the police had Dick. But they let him go later that day because the fingerprints didn't match.

"I wasn't thinking about him at all when I went past the station on the way back to our hotel. But while I was going by, I noticed Muttley wandering around, even though I didn't know it was him then. He must have been left with the car and didn't stay. I got him by the collar, and while I was trying to read the tag, I heard Dick's voice. He'd been looking for Muttley, and then when he saw Muttley, he saw me, too. 

"His first impression was all it took. He was smiling, really smiling, not smirking like usual. We were both going to be in town for a few days, so we were out together every day."

A revelation dawned on Laurel. "So _that's_ why I could never find you anywhere that week. But didn't he have to be in other races after that?"

"He did, but only for another month or two. And we wrote to each other until then. Then he came to Spearfish, and the rest is history." Although she wanted to remember it fondly, there was just no way to. Memories of the golden early days were tarnished by memories that came later.

Against her will, Laurel found herself impressed and disbelieving. "You've done it before and you'll do it again. There must be something about you and these guys."

"Hey, this is different. Plus, this is Max. Do you think he is even thinking about it?" Colette was certain that he wasn't, that he would have other things on his mind. Placing third in the day's race should occupy most of his mind, at least for the rest of the day, wouldn't it?

The Convert-a-Car: 18

The Compact Pussycat: 16

The Bullet-Proof Bomb: 16

The Army Surplus Special: 13

The Creepy Coupe: 9

The Arkansas Chug-a-bug: 9

The Turbo Terrific: 9

The Crimson Haybailer: 7

The Buzz Wagon: 7

The Mean Machine: 4

The Bouldermobile: 4


	6. First Evening in Montague

Chapter 6: Montague, Day 1

Much as the journalists had, the racers had split off into their coteries. And the Red Max was very much alone. That was what he was used to, and it didn't bother him in the least. It had been a busy day, and he was happy enough silently celebrating his third place finish. The feeling of a hand patting him on the back startled him; he hadn't expected it. While he was in his own world of thoughts, nothing around him was seen, heard, or acknowledged.

"Whoa, easy!" Came a mild voice from behind him. When Max turned to look, he was relieved to find it was Meekly. "Sorry, did I scare you?"

"No, fine." Slowly, Max's quickened heartbeats returned to normal. His nerves were always on edge, for one reason or another.

"I just wanted to tell you that you did good today. I think me and Sarge just had a lucky break that first day."

The two chuckled, both proud of their accomplishments. "Ah no, you do vell, too." 

"Thanks. Me and Sarge have pretty lousy odds to win. The Surplus isn't exactly designed for speed."

A hint of a smile appeared on Max's face. "Already you prove zem wrong."

"Once. Whether it will happen again I don't know."

The lobby of this hotel was cozy and comfortable, much less spacious than the one in Waterloo. Not far from Meekly and Max, Sarge and Rufus muttered back and forth to each other. 

Sarge shook his head, clearly at the end of his rope. "What is wrong with Meekly? I've warned him before, but he doesn't listen to me."

"I think I know what you're talking about. You mean"

"Yeah. But he doesn't listen. Never did. Almost got his ass shot off in Nam for disobeying orders. On or off duty, he never listens."

"Maybe it's not what you think. Max can't be as bad as all that. We don't even know him, really," Rufus did want to be open to all possibilities, but Sarge's words were difficult to go against.

Sarge was obstinate. "We don't need to. Germans, they always have to be the best. He's sitting over there, **so** proud of himself because he's beaten an American at something."

The wheels in Rufus's head began to turn, and he looked to Sarge. "Hey, us and Meekly are still going for a drink a little later, right? We could bring Max."

Rufus's idea wiped the scowl off Sarge's face. "Rufus, that is a good idea. Let's do that." The oily response did raise Rufus's eyebrows, but still, it bothered him little. How far could Sarge go, after all? Rufus did find himself going along with Sarge, who he had befriended years earlier. Max seemed to be solitary almost to the point of self-isolation, as if he genuinely wanted it to be that way. 

"Hey Meekly!" Sarge shouted across the room.

Meekly raised his head and shifted his eyes around the room searching for the source of the yell. When he noticed Sarge, he turned back to Max quickly. "Sarge is calling me. I think we're going to leave now. Talk to you later!"

"Goot bye, Meekly."

Following Sarge's beckoning finger, Meekly shuffled off. Now that he was on leave, Meekly had lost his militaristic habits. It was also entirely possible that he had never possessed any in the first place. "Hey Sarge, are we going now? I've been looking forward to it."

Rufus and Sarge were leaning back in their chairs, soporific after the long day. Nodding, Rufus added, "Sure, we'll go."

"Oh, Meekly, I noticed you were talking to Max just now," Sarge began, sounding curious. The hair on Meekly's neck bristled. What would Sarge have to say about Max? He hadn't exactly been Max's biggest fan a few days earlier. On top of that, Meekly got the impression that Sarge was silently disappointed that Max had edged ahead of Peter Perfect at the finish of the day's race. "And I thought, hey! Why not bring him with us?"

Unassuming, Meekly brightened up and relaxed. "You really want to, Sarge?"

"Yeah, the more the merrier. Right, Rufus?"

Cracking his knuckles, Rufus exhaled. "Sure. Four is a good round number."

In a burst of eagerness, Meekly bounded off to Max again. Seeing Meekly's eagerness, Max seemed to catch it from him. His eyes brightened; it seemed he had been brought out of the shadows. It looked as if things would change. "Meekly?"

"Hey, Max. Me, Sarge, and Rufus are going. You want to come with us?"

The news lifted Max's spirits further. That made two invitations over the past two days. A night with the guys now, and an evening with the journalist the next day. "Yes! Zat vould be vonderful."

Meekly rested a hand on the back of the chair as Max rose. "I guess you could say we're celebrating your third place victory, huh?"

"You are sure zis is not a problem?"

"Always the cautious one, just like I remember you. Naaah, Sarge said so himself. Wed be honored to have you." It wasn't exactly that Max doubted Meekly's words; more than that, Max was still somewhat afraid of Sarge's bursts of unbridled fury. Even then, the whole scenario did seem to have a surreal feel to it.

Sarge and Rufus had gotten up, and were already headed toward the door. In two neighboring chairs, Penelope and Peter leaned toward each other, murmuring now and again. As Rufus passed by right in front of Peter Perfect's nose, Penelope followed him with her eyes. "Rufus, where're y'all going?"

Turning on one foot, Rufus staggered a few steps backward and stopped. "Me and the guys are just popping out for a drink." The other three filed past him, and Rufus prepared to turn and go out after them.

"You guys have a good time." Peter gave a hollow sigh. All the men on the race circuit looked up to him; that was no secret. Peter had always been looked upon as the ladies' man, and he was proud of that. The only drawback was that the position cut deeply into his chances at participation in the male social hierarchy of the competitors. But every good thing has its price, and Peter gritted his teeth in hopes of accepting that.

With a knowing grin, Rufus waved goodbye and headed for the door. "Oh, we will!" Pushing through the door, he disappeared after the others into the early twilight. A few moments later, something dawned on Peter.

"Penelope," he paused, trying to sort it out in his head. "Was that the Red Max with them, too?"

"I thank so. Probably just takin' him out to celebrate." That was the first time Peter had ever consciously harbored any hint of jealousy. Although that came as a surprise to him, what struck him as being just as shocking was who he found himself envying. Earlier that day Peter had played the supportive friend for Max, as he seemed to need it. At the time, it had been inconceivable to Peter that nervy, yet austere Max would be able to come out ahead after all, but that was the way it ultimately turned out. "Peter, what's wrong?" The sound of Penelope's voice brought Peter back from his brooding.

"Nothing, nothing at all." It certainly was something, but Peter would rather have come dead last in the day's race than admit it to her. What would she say to it, his resentment of a man who could barely pronounce her name? Peter tried not to think about it, but wasn't having much luck.

Out in the parking lot, the four men strode silently abreast to their oddly matched vehicles. Rufus snorted at the sight of them all parked in a line. "That's something I'd expect to see at one of those crazy car shows, doncha think?"

"I don't know what it looks like," Sarge answered, equally amused, "but you won't find anything like it anywhere else." Rufus shuffled into the Buzz Wagon, shifting Sawtooth from the center of the sight off to the side.

Sensing motion, Sawtooth lazily opened an eye, and flipped onto his back. In a peevish mood, he faced the opposite direction and tried to go back to sleep. "Sawtooth isn't what he used to be. I thought about leaving him at home, but it wouldn't be the same without him." Meekly nodded in agreement, and reached down to stroke the beaver's pelt.

"I suppose you don't mind taking your own car, Max," Sarge asked the question as more of an order than an actual question. Max nodded, and got into the Crimson Haybailer. Sarge and Meekly got into the Surplus Special, and prepared to lead the way.

Peter Perfect watched the entourage leave, and he continued to mull over everything. Why can't I have what they have? Peter asked of himself, still resentful. As far as Peter was concerned, Max had always slipped below the radar, until now. That was what made the whole situation seem somewhat unrealistic to Peter; why would Max suddenly be absorbed into the group that had never given him any particular consideration before.

"Y'all did great today, Peter." Penelope was certainly noticing the change in Peter's demeanor, and she wanted to change it. For her, there was little to occupy her interest between races, and Peter was an excellent source of recreation when he wasn't obsessing over something trivial.

"Speak for yourself, Penny." His voice was kind, but something in his voice was slightly irritable. "Only seconds away from third! I was right behind you"

"But you placed second in was it Burlington?"

Peter brightened up a bit at the memory of a better result. "You're right. It's probably good that he is on the board now." It wasn't that Penelope wasn't completely uninterested in Peter's inner conflict. She did have her own interests at heart when she tried her hand at resolving it, but like Peter, Penelope felt constrained to associate with him and only him. Not that any other racer had any sort of relevance to her. That reminded her that she had arranged to meet Julia the next day. It would give Peter a chance to spend time with someone other than her, which he certainly needed to do. But whether or not he would actually do it was another thing all together.

"Peter? Y'all just won't belave this, but I'm going to meet a journalist tomorrow for lunch. Do you think you can what's wrong?"

Without fully understanding what Penelope had just told him, Peter looked frustrated. "I'm sure you'll have a _wonderful_ time."

"Honestly, what is the matter with you tonight? She's a friend."

"She? Friend?" This further confused Peter, who didn't think Penelope would assort with journalists out of choice.

"Of course, she. She's a nice girl, and I'm sure you could do with time away from me."

Peter wanted to protest, but decided that it really wasn't worth it. "Alright, have it your way. But how can we forget, you were today's winner. A little celebration is in order."

"Thought you'd never ask."

At the same time, Sarge, Meekly, Max, and Rufus had arrived at their destination. The building was small and dimly lit, but it looked comfortable. There was no hint of taboo to it – just soft light tricking from the gaps around the door and at the windows. Max's nerves had been on edge, but they were now on ease; the homey feel of the quaint tavern was just what he needed to soothe him after the hectic day.

The four clustered around a table, Sarge and Rufus on one side, Max and Meekly on the other. Everything began to seem okay. Inhibition was melting away, and Max felt he had finally straightened things out with the others. It was his personal aspiration to see the best in people, and this was no exception.

Once Sarge had ordered Guinness for the table, he leaned back in his chair and sighed. "Meekly, we should've taken the army's offer before."

"About the new tank?"

"Not just a tank," Sarge was now speaking to the whole group, not just Meekly. "A Howitzer 155. The Surplus Six is great, but it just ain't what it used to be."

As he really wasn't a military man himself, Rufus scratched his head. "A Stuart, isn't it?"

"Yup." Sarge answered proudly. "A Stuart M5. Learned to operate it in World War II. I've had some good times in that tank. But I think it's about time to retire it."

Rufus's lips twitched. "The Buzz Wagon's seen better days. Sawtooth used it as a chew toy for a while. But I think Sawtooth is more worn out than it is."

Meekly watched Max's eyes flit from Sarge to Rufus as they muttered back and forth. "How bout you, Max?"

After a deep breath, Max considered. "It ees getting better. I too vant to be trying somezing new."

"What type of plane did you say it was?" Rufus asked, out of curiosity. "I'm sure you've told me, but I forget."

"Ze Crimson Haybailer ees an Albatros D.II. It vas made before I vas born; it ees very old. Gut plane anyvay." They were silent for quite some time, left to their thoughts.

When the drinks arrived, Sarge raised his glass. "I say we toast Max's victory as we did our own." 

"Yeah! Cheers!" Meekly squeaked enthusiastically, raising his glass.

"Cheers," mumbled Rufus in a throaty voice.

"Prost!" Max added, clinking his glass against the other three.

Interested, Meekly lowered his glass. "Prost?"

"Zat ees vhat ve say. Old habit hard to break."

Rufus whipped his toque from his head and patted his lips with it. Mostly, he was just trying to stay out of everyone's way. He wasn't sure what was going through Sarge's mind, and it was becoming increasingly clear that Max was oblivious. Although he ached to say something, he thought it best to just keep his mouth shut.

As it seemed, Sarge had nothing out of the ordinary on his mind. "I hear ya. The second I get used to one war, it ends and another one starts. Meekly, you best hope there's no new wars for awhile."

"Yes sir," Meekly answered with a hint of sarcasm, which Sarge ignored.

"Only 19 when I was drafted for World War II," he continued, preparing to launch into an anthology of war stories, then drawing back. "Ever actually fought in combat, Max?"

"No. I vas born in 1939, not long before my father left home to join ze army. I only vork for ze Air Force."

As soon as Sarge had requested more beer for the group, he continued. "I see. He left you to serve das Führer. Who didn't see that coming?" Sarge spat out the word _Führer_ as he would the four-letter word that began with the same letter. He shook his head in Rufus's direction, his normally stern face contorted with snickering. At the same time, he tried to conceal this so the other two would not see.

Max tipped his head to one side, giving Sarge an odd stare. "It vas _der_ Führer."

Mordantly, Sarge smacked his forehead with the heel of his hand. "Oh, I _am _sorry. And you would know that, wouldn't you?"

Meekly gave Sarge a warning look, but Sarge was not paying Meekly the least bit of attention. Still, Meekly had confidence that Sarge wouldn't do anything extreme. Max felt the same way, although his neck felt more heat, and his stomach tightened more. To keep himself from doing anything he would later regret, Max sipped at his glass of Guinness. Rufus soon broke the distressing silence with a comment about how Dick Dastardly seemed to be improving, and everything became all right. Still, Max couldn't help getting the sense that Sarge had his eye on him, and was just waiting for the right moment to strike. Over and over again, Max occupied himself drinking, wishing that his memories of good times at home could take him back there, at least for a short time.

Back at the hotel, the Ant Hill Mob occupied the nearly empty lobby. "Hey boss, what are we gonna do while we'z here?" Mac asked, looking around. The question had occurred to the others as well. There was little scope for the imagination in the hotel.

"I dunno. Yous mugs have any ideas?"

Suddenly, Danny's rosy cheeks brightened still more, and his eyes lit up. "Hey, we ain't that fah from Albany. We could drive up there."

As usual, Kirby was enthusiastic, but doubted that they would be allowed to go that far from where they were supposed to be staying for their stop. Plus, driving to back to New York would be just like driving another race except without competition. "Danny, are you sure that's okay?"

"Nobody said it ain't."

Clyde frowned. "We only got two days. That'd mean spending most of our time off driving."

Some of the other mobsters babbled amongst each other in agreement.

Danny was insistent. "Remembuh last time we went to Albany?"

Tired and apathetic, Rug-Bug-Benny was propped up against the wall. "Yuh mean when the fuzz almost got us on the way there?"

The comment didn't bother Danny. He didn't remember that that had even happened, so it was of little importance to him. "No, no. After that."

"Yuh mean when we had just found a place to hide and Ring-a-Ding yelled, Ready or not, here they come?'"

"No, after that."

"When wez had to find a new place to hide, and had to stay in gahbage cans for three hours?"

"After that."

"When wez couldn't find nowhere to stay and had to go back to the gahbage cans?"

Danny's responses came more and more haltingly. "No, after that."

"When wez found out that it was gahbage day?"

"No, after that."

By now, Rug-Bug-Benny was stifling laughter at the memory, as were some of the others. "When wez finally got out and found the cah, but it was at the impound?" 

"After that?"

"And then wez got chased by the fuzz again on the way home?"

With a snort, Clyde shook his head. "Give it up, Danny."

"Yeah, screw Albany."

As the mobsters followed Clyde to their rooms, Willy whispered to Danny, "Why did yous want to go there at all?"

"I dunno." With that, the mob split up, and filed off into their adjoining rooms. They were going nowhere, it seemed. 

Several blocks away, the Crimson Haybailer wove unsteadily across the empty streets just outside Montague. The area was sparsely populated, and most who did live there were not about to be on the streets in the early morning hours as Max was. He knew it was late, and although it hadn't looked like the others were leaving the tavern, he was ready to. The awkward silences overpowered Max, and Sarge's occasional stark remarks seemed to always be directed at him.

Max blinked his eyes repeatedly, trying to clear the fog that seemed to have settled over him. Nothing around him seemed real; it was all a dream. This was not the first time Max had lived in denial, wanting reality to suddenly be revealed as unreality. But it never had been before, and this was not destined to be an exception. 

Words were beyond him. All he could comprehend was an emotion here, a concept there. Behind the thick mist of confusion that was smothering him, all he felt was fear. He had no room to feel anything else. Inside, it consumed him. Questions filled his mind, but not in the logical way they filed in on normal occasions. Here he was, alone and astray.

He hadn't gone far, barely out of sight of the pub. It had invited him in so warmly, and now, he wanted nothing more than to get away. But everything was overwhelming. In terror, Max channeled all his force onto the brake, and after a skid of several feet, he slid right, off the side of the road, and into the grass. 

Overtaken by violent shivers, he clutched to the side of his seat. The night wasn't cold, but he was. A thundering sound shook the road behind him, but that was of little concern to him. There was no energy left in Max to acknowledge it. Colors and sounds died away, and everything faded to black.

Not far from the hotel Max longed to get back to, Colette and Laurel had turned off the light in their room and tried to fall asleep. This was difficult for Colette in her anticipation of the next day, and Laurel was just a little ball of fire. "Colette," she whispered from across the room.

"Mmm-hmm?"

"Whatcha thinking about?"

Sighing lightly, Colette answered with what she knew Laurel would like to hear. "Tomorrow. And hoping Max is in his room thinking about it too."


End file.
